


To Thine Ownself

by sakurasencha



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 02, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-09-20 21:08:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 31,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9516359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sakurasencha/pseuds/sakurasencha
Summary: "Believe it or not I will stay true to you." – Post episode 2.07 AU. Branson does not believe her.





	1. Hindsight

**Author's Note:**

> Credit where credit is due: the premise for this fic came from ARCurren, so you can blame her for the angst fest. Beta by the flawless Mrstater of Mary/Richard stanning infamy. Shippy-feelings and other feedback provided by the sassy afraidnotscared. And I think Julian Fellowes might have had a part in it all, but don't quote me on that.
> 
> First published 6/13.

_The sky looks like rain when he sees the reflection of her face in the brass headlight he is polishing. Before her image becomes enlarged enough to signal that she is standing right behind him, he sees her head sneak a furtive peek over her right shoulder, his heart enlivened with the idea that she has stolen away to see him._

" _Branson," she begins as he turns to greet her with a courteous nod, planting himself at a respectful distance. "Could you take me into Thirsk on Thursday evening?"_

" _That shouldn't be a problem, milady. I'll just need to clear it with his Lordship."_

" _Quite right," she replies, then looks down with that cautionary, pregnant pause which he knows means her mind is brewing. Her head lifts up, the meaning in her eyes not the least bit elusive as she says, "Actually, he's already given me permission to go out that night."_

_He cannot account for the seemingly narrowed distance that has sprung up between them, but he takes a step forward to accommodate the trend. "But..." he says, the smile only in his voice._

_Her smile is on her lips, while her voice is warm and unashamed, conspiratorial. "But he thinks I'm going to Ripon for a meeting for one of my charities."_

_The Guns of August have been booming for little over a year, yet so remote are they from quaint North Yorkshire that most days they can hardly hear even an echo. Aside from the occasional Bad News or an upsettingly frank article, time continues to pass in that hazy sameness that fools one into thinking no time is passing at all._

_The air is like lukewarm steam while he internally peruses all of the indiscrete events occurring in Thirsk that week. "I won't take you to the ELFS peace rally," he informs her bluntly, though his elation at the prospect of being her (this time) witting accomplice is such that he decides with enough persuasion he may just amend that position._

" _It's not for that." Her smile turns impish at his disbelieving look. "Not entirely!" she laughs. "Of course I want to at least see it, but I'll have you know my real purpose in going is much more innocent."_

" _So much more innocent that you have to lie to your father about it?"_

_Her grin is cheeky – "When you hear why I want to go you'll say yes" – and irresistible as well, because these days he'd probably say yes without even asking why. But he obliges:_

" _Why?"_

_She reaches into the folds of her dress and presents him with a letter. He reads it impassively, eyes widening slightly as he reaches the end, and then looks back up to her face glittering with shared excitement. "Gwen's getting married?"_

_The clouds thunder lightly as she beams. "She's asked me to come and I told her I would, but I don't think that kind of a wedding is something my parents would allow me to attend."_

That kind, _she says_. My kind, _he thinks, and any kindling of altruism is extinguished._

" _I don't think we should be conspiring together to fool your father," he says with a backward step, handing her the letter. She accepts it gingerly, confused at the sudden cold turn. "Just tell him the truth. You said yourself that it's innocent enough."_

 _She frowns. "They won't let me go. You know they won't." She eyes turn beseeching. "Please, Branson. I_ promised _her."_

" _Then you shouldn't make promises you can't keep," he snaps the rebuke, and winces at the way she leans back and the accusatory note in her eyes._ Not you too _, they say before she turns around and walks briskly away._

" _Wait. I didn't mean –" he calls, but she is still retreating. "Where are you going?" He runs after her. "Lady Sybil!"_

_He quickly catches up to her, and she forces him to walk silently beside for several minutes before she relents to stop. "'I'm going to find Lynch," she says finally. She crosses her arms. "I'll take the governess cart if I have to!"_

" _The governess cart? All the way to Thirsk?" He shakes his head, laughing. "You'd have to start Wednesday morning just to make it in time."_

" _Then so be it. But I_ will _get there, one way or another." She continues her march to the stables, calling over her shoulder to him as the first drops of rain begin to fall:_

" _I always keep my promises."_

* * *

 

_**February, 1919** _

_They came. They saw. They conquered_.

Only Branson is left standing, dumbfounded in defeat, stock still in the center of the small and emptied room, the image of Lady Mary's red coat trailing through the door a final victory blow set on infinite loop in his mind. A part of him stubbornly refuses to believe, while the rest feels it may very well take the remainder of his lifetime simply to process the events which had just unfolded as he stood helplessly by, and if time had any compassion it would have ceased to pass the moment she'd imparted her Judas' kiss of a farewell to allow him the leisure.

But the earth has not stop spinning and the minutes tick by just as evenly as they always have before he watched his future disintegrate. He hears it even now, the measured pace of the timepiece on the mantle, a steady rhythm to his own frenetic and pounding heart. A few minutes pass and the beating calms; his consuming shock and disbelief begin to dissipate, and is at last dispelled altogether a few more minutes later, after he unconsciously registers Lady Edith revving up the engine, by his first coherent thought:

_I need to leave._

This is bolstered by the second, which is really an addendum to the first:

 _I need to leave_ her _._

He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, and for the first time in years there is clarity. The rosy lenses are unhinged and his vision is no longer distorted. He sees everything with crystalline hindsight, the way she has ravaged his life, the dreams and purpose and time – _so much time!_ – that she has usurped, that he had sacrificed again and again and again only to be left standing, cluttered garage exchanged for dingy inn room, just exactly as he'd started: lonely, still, and waiting – always waiting – waiting for her to come to him.

But she will never come. Or, more accurately, she will never _stay_. And if it were down to him he would be at the docks with a one-way ticket in hand by first light, bags packed, never to be heard from again. This throbbing conviction spreads through his limbs and sends them flying, to the corner of the room, where he had stowed his small case, back to the bed, where he lays it open, and finally here and there about the small room as he begins tossing in the few paltry items he has brought with him. He closes the case and heads for the door. A straight shot from North Yorkshire to Liverpool, that is the plan. A failsafe one, he decides, foolproof against the drowning waters of her eyes, the ensnaring mouth which drips of verisimilitude. He knows a single sight of her would be enough to waylay his resolve, and he heads out the door, Downton Abbey and all its inhabitants consigned to the dust in his feet, before he stops dead, a groan escaping as the fly in the ointment surfaces.

_But –_

But there is still the matter of the car.

It must be returned. He is to return it in the morning.

He sighs then, but does not stop walking to the staircase, although he does momentarily pause on the landing, considering briefly, really only a second or two, of getting his money's worth out of the room and leaving come dawn. He paid cash in advance when they first arrived, a detail he did not care to extrapolate to Lady Mary in the wake of his humiliation. But ultimately he decides against the idea. The scant hours he spent in the hard-backed chair getting choked to death by his tie and nerves offered no rest but plenty of happiness. But now, a comfortable night alone in a bed made for two seems a petty recompense for the destruction of his hopes, and instead he forgoes the satisfaction of rest, leaves the inn to the bemused expression of its keeper, and starts up the engine bare minutes after the getaway car sped his Lady back to her tower.

The car ride back teems with unsung poetry. There are verses on love. On loss and heartache. And above all of these is betrayal, reverberating throughout the small cab, thickening the resentment till he can eat it with a spoon.

_Believe it or not, I will stay true to you._

Her emollient words did not have the desired effect. The blow was not softened. His faith was not renewed. It is late enough (or early enough) that the roads are empty, and stark trees waiting for a breath of warm Spring remain the only hindrances in an otherwise vast and unmarked night. And with the confluence of the unvarying terrain and pervading darkness his vision begins to change focus, shifting from the mottled gray of the road to a ghostly reel of images, one scene blending into the next – of Sybil, cascading down the stairs in turquoise trousers; breathless as an unexpected yet welcome hand takes hers; timidly visiting him in the garage, then later more boldly. Of Sybil, plucking a berry off of her first experiment in the kitchen; downcast and wordless in the face of an expected yet unwelcome proposal; a touch to her side, then a visit in the night that seals the matter on her decision and their mutual intentions, or so he had thought.

The reel continues.

Now they are not married. Now they are returned to Downton. Now she still visits him boldly, then later more timidly, and even later hardly at all. Now their engagement is relegated to the hypothetical, then later to the improbable, and even later to nothing as her sisters set to work and the suitors begin to pile up, until one day he awakens to find that he is once again only the chauffeur and she the Lady, with another year gone by.

_Believe it or not–_

His grip on the steering wheel tightens.

_Or not._

For while he does not think her so weak that five seconds will be enough to undo her heart, five days, five weeks, five _months_ , perhaps, under the pernicious tutelage of Mary's silver tongue might well see the deed done. And with her faithfulness thus besieged by the dark night and his darker mood, all of her beguiling minutiae – the curve of her cheek against his, the throaty laugh whispering in his ear, the veil of her undone hair sifting between his fingers – all of these which might have allayed his festering sense of betrayal begins to fade, and in his mind's eye there is only a single thought left in focus:

He will return the car in the night, and he will be gone before morning.

* * *

Silence devours the inside the cab, the tension mounting with a kind of dread for what the morning will bring. And they are all swimming in it, all four of them as they sit with their eyes to themselves and their mouths shut, the quietest of them Sybil, face dabbed with a pair of drying streaks that run from eye to chin.

But this reminder of her tears and former compliance belies the picture of defiance that she paints with her squared shoulders, her mouth set in a hard line that is fortified below by an upturned chin. They all believe her. She knows that's what frightens Mary into submission, excising any of her usual blistering remarks, and what presses Edith's sole into the gas pedal till the car careens.

But their ready faith in her word does not count for much. They are not the ones that need convincing. The surety of the absent party might have been concerning to some, but the way the endurance that lives in his eyes had clouded over at the moment of her departure does not trouble Sybil, for to her self-contained mind there is no need to worry. The matter of her abandonment is easily, almost clinically resolvable: A word of comfort, a kiss of affection, and they shall continue on, and upheld by a string of promises made to her – words like _every waking moment, I'll stay, forever_ – she is able to live securely in her delusions.

Edith shuts off the lights as they enter the park, and there are still no words.

They tramp back through dry grass and cold air, and no one dares utter a syllable.

When they leave her at the door of her room she finally speaks:

"We will still marry," she says to their worn and unamused faces.

Mary's parting mouth looks to be winding up but Sybil raises a hand to stop her, "I wish to be alone" her sole valediction before she shuts the door in their faces, slips down to her undergarments, and sits composedly on the bed. She lays easily down, palms and fingers splayed across her ribcage as she exhales deeply and slowly. She is exhausted. But her mind will not be at rest, and behind her closed eyes flips image after image, like the turning of a book, its quick pace occasionally pausing to alight upon a specific page, a specific memory:

A sure hand passing back pamphlets – the first time she remembers him.

A forbidden feel of skin against her lace glove – the first time she had touched him.

Two nights ago – the first time she had kissed him.

She draws up each image as from a nourishing well, but it is the final page on which she lingers, remembering how her world had spun on a thread of silk before she had willing let it plummet into the darkness of the unknown. It had been her undoing, that moment of relinquish, for she had loved him before then, yes – of that she was certain. But it had been a love of theory, not yet practice, and once put into physical motion the momentum could not be stopped, only propelled ever onward by those laws of physics that she had never been allowed to learn but which ruled her world and body nonetheless.

And though she does not mean it to, her sleepiness begins to claim her as her liquid thoughts slip over and through one another, fluid and ever changing, yet always of him, with a single, solid thought skimming along the surface, a buoy to which all others find their locus:

_Believe it or not I will be true to you._

_I will._

She will marry Tom Branson, or she will marry no one at all.

* * *

Having returned and safely deposited Sybil to her bedchamber, Mary and Edith feel security enough to shrug off their fatigue, concede to their younger sister's request to be left alone to her torment, and convene in Mary's bedroom. Spiked energy thrummed through the pair the whole length of the midnight retrieval, but now the peeping dawn begins to dry up the last of their reserves, and it is in voices subdued with weariness that they discuss their next plan of attack.

A separation severe and immediate is at once agreed upon. Edith questions its feasibility, knowing well the determination of both parties involved. Mary is more sanguine about their chances of success, trusting in the sobering light of day to see cooler heads prevail.

"After all," she reasons, "it took all of two minutes for me to convince Sybil to return with us. Just think what I could do with two hours – or two days, for that matter."

"But she did promise to be true to him, whatever that means. And you _know_ how Sybil is," Edith contests, tilting her head and flipping out her hand as if to show how Sybil is.

"Stubborn. Yes, I know." Mary sighs tiredly. "Which is why it might well be easier to work on Branson." She rises from her place on the bed to stand near the drawn window, one finger shifting the curtain to the side to allow for a slice of pre-dawn grey to slip into the darkened room. "It will all come down to tomorrow morning – or rather, this morning," she amends, squinting against the early light. "If we can keep her away and convince Branson to leave on his own accord, then it won't matter how many promises she gives."

Mary withdraws her hand. The curtain falls back in place and she turns towards Edith, her face in shadows.

"He'll be gone. And Sybil will be safe."

Edith nods. Divide and conquer is to be their tactic, and she dispatches herself rather early after quitting Mary's bedroom, permitting herself only the luxury of a quick change of coat and stockings, a few coarse brushstrokes through her hair, before she embarks on her quest. Half an hour later she is a shock of tangled strawberry hair bobbing in time with her steps which speed her out to the garage to await Branson's return.

But her haste had been in vain. At the last bend, when the garage at last swings into view, she finds the car already there, and he still in it, the engine humming with warmth and the suggestion that he is barely arrived. She changes trajectory to afford a more surreptitious view, and once closer sees him debark and stumble himself onto a bench, his face sinking into his hands and his body eerily still.

Her throat constricts. The uncomfortable work must be done sooner rather than later, so she forces a mouthful of air, utilizing all her learned caution in her approach, that of a newborn's mother entering the nursery, as if fearful of waking him from his stupor with her presence. She is pensive; her own thoughts on the matter are halfway between apology and indignation. _How dare he –_ flares chiefly and hotly upon first introspection. He cannot expect to burn the world down, fashioning poor Sybil into his accomplice, without any attempts to thwart him. But she can undeceive her sense of propriety enough to admit that despite her misgivings, her former indiscretions have made her more pliable to the idea, this notion that a God-given love should transcend the arbitrary bounds established by mere mortals. And although she can sympathize with their cause, can hardly criticize, she has not yet mustered up enough goodwill to approve.

How strange it is, she feels as she draws closer, the many hours she spent in his company, learning how to drive as she learned about him, and all the while never once having a clue. She thought she knew him then, understood the individuality of the man underneath the ubiquitous livery, his passions, his pursuits, having been audience enough times to glean them. But as he stares wordlessly at her advancing form she is struck with the complete foreignness of the man sitting there, a challenge nesting in his eyes. Slightly rumpled, he has neither the good grace to look ashamed or stand for his betters, his face hard but still expressive, though the message on display unreadable.

"Lady Edith," is all he offers by way of greeting, and she wonders if she should modify her scruples enough to accept that this face might one day be named her brother.

"Good morning, Branson." She looks abashedly down to the ground, then back up again, reminding herself that she is not the one who committed treason last night. "I won't bother beating about the bush. I remember how to the point you are, and I'm sure you've already guessed why I'm here." She pauses for any sort of acknowledgement. When none is forthcoming, she continues. "You see, Mary and I have discussed the situation. We'd like to avoid any scandal, of course, and to spare Sybil as much as possible. We'll not tell Papa – nor anyone, for that matter – as long as you agree to leave at once and never contact Sybil again."

He blinks once. "There's no need to worry, m'lady. I don't plan on being here any longer than it'll take to pack up a few of my things."

"Oh." His easy acquiesce throws her slightly aback. "Very well, then." And has left her a little nonplussed. "And your notice?"

"I'll leave a letter for Mr. Carson. And you won't have to worry about what it'll say; I'll make it sound very legitimate."

"I see." Her fingers wring about one another. "Although I suppose leaving without proper notice won't recommend you to any future employers."

"Neither will eloping with my current employer's daughter."

He nods then, a segue for her comfortable and quick removal. Branson will leave. Sybil will stay. It was just as she desired, what Mary and she had hoped for. But like the armistice of Autumn the victory seems only half won, a sweet success made sour by the high casualty rate.

"Branson," she spurts out, though she will never pinpoint why. "I know you're keen to be off, but I…I do think it might be best if you waited at least a little while before you run off forever. At least until you've seen Sybil."

His eyes narrow. "You told me to leave at once."

"Not for long. Just to say goodbye, I mean."

"If I see her again I never will say goodbye."

His reply ends with an audible period, and this time Edith does not mismanage his cue, promptly taking her leave of him and his demons.

* * *

When Sybil awakens, primal beams of light creeping in through the undrawn window to jab open her eyes, she does so suddenly and with a cold stab, like a splintered knife dipped into the based of her spine, a terrifying suspicion superseded by those two words which always heralds only the worst anxiety:

 _What if_ –

The traitorous thought is expelled with her grogginess, before it has a chance to take root and immobilize her. But regardless of that she is still disoriented by anxiety: She fell asleep. She did not mean to fall asleep. She meant to bide her time, to sneak away, to meet him and greet him, to shower him with affection and as many more promises as would be required, and she fairly jumps out of her sheets, for this is not a time for _dwelling_ , but a time for action, as only Sybil Crawley knows how, and on goes the skirt and the blouse and the stockings, up goes the hair in a bevy of pins, and pushing towards the door she swings it purposefully open – to find Mary on the other side, a blockade of crossed arms and disapproval.

Sybil looks as if she had been dressed by a hurricane. "And just where do you think you're going?" Mary asks.

"I think you know exactly where. Please stand aside, Mary."

"Get back inside of your room, Sybil."

Instead of outrage there is a low-pitched deadliness in her voice. "I will see him whether you want it or not."

Mary sighs. "Need I remind you that Papa's room is only three doors down, and that I have the power to send Branson away, now and forever? That I've always had it, and never used it?"

"Two minutes," Sybil hisses, and Mary steps inside, quietly shuts the door, and rounds on her.

"You promised me you wouldn't do anything stupid, _Sybil_."

"And you told me that you were on my side, _Mary_."

"I should like to think stopping you from throwing your life away and saving you from utter ruin would count as being on your side."

"I'm not throwing my life away!"

"I don't understand, your suddenly running off with him like this. You told me you didn't even like him!"

"I told you I wasn't sure!"

"And I suppose now you are?" Mary asks, the incredulity dripping off the angles in her face.

"Yes," Sybil answers. "Yes, I am sure." She folds her arms over her chest. "I've never been more sure of anything in my entire life."

"This isn't a game, Sybil. If you marry Branson it will be the end of everything you know. And life on the other side won't be this rustic glamor you think it. It will be work, hard work, and without the benefit of much money – a life that you are entirely unaware of and may one day come to resent."

"I know what it is to work – and I welcome it." A swell of sunlight breaches the casement, momentarily distracting her with the portent of dwindling morning. Sybil looks to it, shafts alighting on the far wall and falling across the softening edges in her face, the belligerence there ebbing to entreaty as her eyes return to Mary. "I didn't come to this decision lightly," she says softly. "I've thought about it for months – for years! Don't think for a moment that I haven't considered every other option." Her head shakes as she says, " I'm not made for this life, Mary."

"Aren't you?" One eyebrow lifts. "Sybil, if you want to keep working, if you want a new life, then appeal to Papa. Ask him to let you stay on at the hospital, to send you to university. Expand your horizons here. You don't need to run off to Dublin because you're tired of needle work and dressing up for dinner."

Sybil's eyes yield and land on the floor.

"It's more than that, Mary. You know it is."

"So you're in love with him?" Mary nearly scoffs.

She shrugs. "Something like that."

"'Something like that?' Forgive me if I'm not ready to shower you in blessings for ' _Something like that_ '!"

The fuse is back, and shorter than ever: Sybil's collar is on fire, as are her eyes. "What do you want from me?" she snaps, one elbow jutting out from her hip, the other gesticulating in a way that is disturbingly reminiscent of the driver. "To declare it from the rooftops? To write out my love in in the sky? What I will say is this," she says on an exhale, a concession to becalm herself. "I feel that if I gave him up, I would regret it for the rest of my life. I don't want that to be my fate, and despite whatever you may think or say, I know you don't want that for me either. Now," she says, the pleading eyes back in place, "are you going to tell Papa?"

Mary's face crumbles. "Oh, darling. What do you think?"

* * *

When Sybil left Mary, doubtless face marching unrepentant towards the half-risen sun, she invoked to the elder's eye the embodiment of inexhaustible confidence.

When Mary comes to fetch her, four hours later, Sybil still maintains the facade of dignity; but the rest of her is flagging. Famished, thirsty, and overtired in way that her long hours of nursing never amounted to, every physical privation is laughed at in the face of the torture being done to her heart.

The morning is over, along with her chances. She is the cat whose last life has been forfeited to her complacency, too much in the habit has she been in taunting fate, in taunting him with her vacillating commitment. But like all creatures who have fallen over the precipice she remains in denial of the ground below. Mary can see this clearly as she draws near, and clutches her coat more tightly about her shoulders, a brace for what is to come, every step going out of its way to be conspicuous.

"Sybil, darling," she says soothingly when she has reached the figure seated at the stoop of the cottage. "It's nearly luncheon. Please, come back to the house with me."

Her insistence is non-negotiable, but as gentle as she is capable of. She knows there is only one way this stand off will end, and she is prepared to risk the sharp edges, to be the hands that collect the fragmented remains and piece them back together.

Sybil is on high alert, and has not looked at her sister even once, her eyes somewhere beyond the horizon. "No, I –" They focus forward, darting till they land on Mary – "I need to wait here for him. I want to be here when he returns" – and then flee back into the distance.

Mary murmurs:

"Darling...he's already returned."

"Then when he comes back," she replies with urgency. There is silence next, a woefully meaningful look. She requires assurances and the lack of these angers her. "He _will_ come back for me," she argues, turning up her face, "and when he does he'll see me waiting – and then he'll know."

"Sybil. He's not coming back. He's left Downton for good."

Her short, barking laugh contains no humor and is bordering on desperate. "You're lying," she says, bolting up. "You'll say anything to get me to leave!" Her arms fly into the air to accentuate the point.

"You know I don't lie." A pause, a single glance to the side, and then softly, almost apologetically: "He's left a letter for Carson." _Urgent family matters have drawn me back to Ireland_. "Along with his notice, effective immediately."

Her lips tightly pressed, Sybil breathes heavily through her nose, then scrambles to the window and presses her face to the glass till her nose is touching. "His things are all inside!" Another humorless laugh. "He wouldn't leave without them!"

"He came here and packed a few things. Edith got it all from him when he arrived – she met him here and they spoke." She waits for the information to do its work, to draw her deflating sister back down the porch and to her side, and then continues: "He stopped by the post on his way to the station, to hire someone to collect the rest of his belongings and send them on after him." She shrugs. "It was all in the letter."

Sybil's run out of refutations, all the logical ones at least, and her mind begins to leap. An accident. Illness, perhaps. An infinite parade of sheep, bleating and bumping as they block the road, and him stranded at the impasse thinking only of her. But among all of the unlikely options there is only one that truly remains impossible to her:

That he's left her.

"But it's...no..." She shakes her head and glances back behind her, the sight of the now unoccupied cottage transfixing her, rooting her. "It's not possible," she whispers. "He wouldn't leave me."

"Darling..." Mary speaks softly, lest she be the final ill wind that knocks over the pillar of salt. "You're the one who's left him."

The truth drops violently, knocking the world away. Sybil is motionless as she drifts: though sightless, wide eyed and staring. Mute, yet open mouthed, lungs compressed of all air as if being hit with a sack of bricks. And for the first time that morning there is clarity. The events of the previous night replay across her transcending eyes, only now perceived through the perfecting lens of hindsight: the one-sided nature of her decisive departure, the appearance of infidelity in the aftermath of so little constancy, and the ineffable wretchedness of his parting gaze which plainly screamed that he did not believe her.

"No," Sybil cries. "But I haven't! I haven't!" And while Mary is in no need of a lesson on Sybil's integrity, she gets one regardless. "I'm still going to marry him, I – it'll just be a little while longer, that's all. And not very long, just until he gets a job and we have everything settled. And then we'll tell mama and papa, just like you said – _in broad daylight_." Her voice chokes. "Isn't that what you told me, Mary?" she yells, the charge in her voice evident and laid bare at her sister's feet, though in her heart Sybil knows there is no merit. The sister is faultless and a willing succor as Sybil collapses to a heap in her arms. "I don't understand...he promised me..."

"Oh, darling." Mary smooths down the wisps being taken up by the mild wind. "I'm so sorry Sybil."

"..and I told him...why didn't he believe me?"

"Because he doesn't know you as well as he ought," Mary replies, words etched with a bitterness she does not attempt to hide, "for someone who wanted to make himself your husband." The next she says gingerly: "Perhaps this is for the best."

"No." Sybil pushes away, walks a few paces off. Her eyes land somewhere, on an indistinct focal view of the Abbey, and she looks to be staring at something, at nothing. She sniffs as the racking subsides. "It's gone, isn't?"

Mary follows after. "What?"

"He would speak of it, sometimes, even before I agreed. The rows of small, modern flats that fill out the west part of the city. One bedroom, a small kitchen – 'low maintenance' he would say, and I'd tell him that he'd be responsible for all of it. How it always rained, but that after awhile you get used to it, you learned to appreciate the way it cleaned out the sky. He told me of the hospitals and clinics, the ones that he could remember. And the cinema they just built nearby, the lanes in Phoenix Park that we would walk together, the pubs and the parties – the things to do on a Sunday afternoon. And his cousin – he told me about a cousin of his who went to Trinity on scholarship. I used to imagine –" Her face suddenly screws, and her hands move up to shield her eyes. "It can't just be _gone_!"

"Sybil..."

"He's not gone!"

Mary envelops her, wraps her hands tightly and closely against her shivering back. "There's nothing here for you anymore. Please, come back up to the house with me."

And with every fiber rarified, every source depleted, every spring run dry, Sybil at last wearily complies, carried away in the crook of Mary's arm.

Halfway there Sybil remarks, "He asked me to marry him two years ago and has been wasting away in that damn garage ever since. What were a few more months to him?"

Mary truly seems to consider this, and perhaps, Sybil thinks, it is the through the bitter prism of experience through which she speaks her next words: "Sometimes a person can only suffer so much, no matter how great the love."

"And did I make him suffer? With my equivocating, with my caprice?" Her stride falters but does not stop, the sobs replenishing. "I told him yes, and then I left him at the first test of my faith. So tell me, Mary, have I ruined everything?"

It hits so close to the mark that Mary visibly winces, though Sybil is in no condition to notice anything that extends beyond her own misfortune.

"Of course not!" Mary cries. The personal parallels have made her generous, and she adds: "And it wasn't him, either," and pauses a moment to swallow down the gravel in her throat. "It's simply the way of things, circumstances that eclipse us. Something which neither you or he has control over, and which we are all subject to, in the end."

Sybil sniffs, and wipes her face with her sleeve. "Fate, you mean?"

Mary pauses. "Something like that."

And so Sybil, in cold comfort, is led back to the house. After entering she takes the steps by two until she reaches the top of the stairs, as fleeting as an apparition until she closes her bedroom door behind her. Mary orders Anna to bring up a tray and it arrives thirty minutes after Sybil had dropped onto the mattress. Anna leaves it without commentary upon the side table, for Lady Sybil had already fallen asleep amidst her tears, the precise volume of her anguish remaining forever a mystery to the housemaid, who never hears her mistress mention the name _Tom Branson_ ever again; while Branson, one hundred some odd miles to the southwest, standing along the crowded shore of Liverpool side by side with his brother, waits on a pier for the next ferry departure.

The seagulls invaded at the first aroma of food, ravenous squawks clawing at his ears until they want to bleed. The batch of cold fish and chips that he is eating is tasteless and granular in his mouth, as if battered in sand, while the smell of salt and the sight of boundless mineral blue feels evermore like misery than the freedom he had envisioned.

Kieran is leaning casually, enjoying his fare, and sounds unperturbed as ever as he says, "You might have told me earlier you were coming, Tommy."

"I didn't know myself until recently. You'll forgive me."

Kieran shrugs with one shoulder. "No need. It's no hassle closing the garage for an afternoon. But if I'd known I would've booked you a passage this morning so you wouldn't have to wait."

His elbows support him as he stoops over the railing, blinking dimly out over the ocean. "I don't mind waiting," he says.

The conversation thins. Branson gulps down the last bite of soggy cod he can stomach before tossing the rest over the rail to land in the sea that has so captured his listless gaze. Its meager splash goes unheard amidst the riot of the docks and the attacking gulls, any formation of ripples lost to the choppy waves. The sun at high noon has evaporated much of his wrath, and he is longing for her again, unsure whether this is a sign that the ticket stuffed in his coat pocket is one of freedom or imprisonment. At Downton he felt anchored, guided by that blinding lodestar, by that numinous love and primal lust which were both wrapped up so bountifully in her; but now his moods are contrary, restive, his purpose changing by the hour. Every step he takes away from her amplifies his uncertainty and the feeling he is walking head first into a mistake.

"I had to leave," he says with a sudden burst of panic. "I had wanted to go back to Dublin for a good while now, and I can't stay in England. Not anymore."

The whole explanation is vague, practically begging to be teased apart. But his brother simply nods and chews, for unlike Mary Crawley, Kieran Branson is a stranger to familial duty, one who keeps himself to himself, and expects others to do the same. Incurious to a fault, he is, and rather proudly so, one who neither presses for details or even very much cares for them.

But the details harass Branson's mind, clamoring for release. A ferry ride to determine the rest of his life, and with the money already spent and nothing but a dubious subconscious to tell him otherwise, he says farewell to his nonchalant brother, walks across the gangplank, settles into the first available bench, and pulls out paper and pen, seemingly his only true friends in a world that has grown increasingly undependable.

And so it is that he has irrevocably evacuated Downton and is Dublin bound when he begins the first of his letters to her. They canonize how every second of his life at Downton was lived for only a glimpse, and then once the glimpses became commonplace a conversation, and then once the conversations became daily a gesture, or a smile, or any indication that his abiding affection was even remotely reciprocated. And how over time there had been smiles, and gestures. The secret visits in the night, the shared laughter and common purpose that to his mind meant surety, even when the creases on her brow spoke only of confusion. And how all those years were a kind of frustrated bliss, an indefinite stall in paradise. How worthy she was of every second, not a single day wasted, and how he would do them all over again if only he could believe, believe that she will stay true to him.

And the days pass.

And Cora or Robert sometimes comment on Sybil's changed demeanor. They cite the languor in her stride, the loss of zeal which used to punctuate her sentences. It does not worry them overmuch, and in Robert's case he almost smiles with a smug relief when he mentions it to his other, evasive looking daughters, who murmur about the war and then change the topic altogether. And Sybil, still freshly wounded, takes solace in the memories as she meanders the corridors, lurched along by the occasional, bursting hope that surfaces when the front bell rings, and which grows duller and more infrequent with every lonely day.

And Branson makes it safely to Ireland, to Dublin, his home city where his mother welcomes him profusely and confusedly. She feeds him and watches him, unpacks his trunk once it arrives, and never asks why. She is content never to know, as long she has him here and mostly intact, and bears with his uncharacteristic sullenness the only way she knows how, with an overdose of chatter and food. And his brothers and sisters come to parade their many and heretofore unseen children before him like prized tomatoes at the fair, each one alike in their chubbiness and precociousness, and in the painful reminder of the family that was so tantalizingly close to reach.

And the weeks pass.

And Branson applies here and there, undeterred by the fact that he is unreferenced and nearly forgotten in his old circles. On the day an acceptance letter finally arrives in the post he is shocked to see the letterhead of a local paper who only received his resume as a lark. They bestow on their newest junior reporter a healthy enough income to finance not only himself, but any burgeoning family he may happen conceive, and in this even fate seems to be laughing at him. And so he writes during the day, and when the day is over he writes during the night, infusing every page with his great love for her that will always be denied, even in acceptance had been denied. He signs them and dates them but never rereads them, and they collect in a thickening pile at the bottom of the case he had carried with him back to Dublin.

And Sybil begins to grow used to the idea that her future will not be in Ireland, and will not be with him. That it will not be brightened by bustle or his self possessed smile. Having been forbidden to go back into nursing, she pursues other avenues of occupation to distract the residing ache in her heart. Her old charities welcome her back with gusto. Extended visits to Aunt Rosamund are accomplished even when an invitation is absent. They help alleviate the worst, and the rest she overcomes as she does any enemy, with persistence and strength of mind.

And the months pass.

And Sybil begins to find a new rhythm to her life, one that does not include secrecy and deceit. It does not include much excitement, either, but she has matured enough to understand that fulfillment can be found in many ways, even the boring ones. There will be no new life but there will be lives that she can help. There will be no love but there will be good works. There will be no family of her own, but she has the love of parents and sisters, the admiration of friends, and though she has become accustomed to the permanency of regret, she is content.

And Branson, everyday, thinks he might just seal and deliver his latest masterpiece. After all, he knows her address and these days can well afford the price of a stamp. But a spate of resentment always bridles his hand just as he is sealing the envelope, or the plan is terrorized away on the way to the post office, by the fear of what he may find in her reply – or rather _who_ he may find, not his Lady Sybil Crawley, but someone else entirely, a Lady Merton or a Viscountess Tantyl, the endless list of men who ever cast her so much as an approving smile rotating through his mind, each night haunting him as he falls remorsefully to sleep.

And the years pass.


	2. Providence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More of the same: the surpreme MrsTater provided the beta and afraidnotscared provided invaluable opinions. Last chapter was more of a prologue and this is where the real story begins. Oh, and there are some glancing historical references in this one so I'll leave a few authors notes at the end for the curious, although if you truly are curios I would just recommend reading the wikipedia entries, which is basically what I did.

_It is common knowledge that her father, just as many fathers before him, can be relied upon to miss almost any kind of subterfuge. But she has miscalculated her latest scheme, forgetting that the library is his domain, a place where he reigns with an eagle's eye as its overseer, even as he is a slave to its maintenance and order, and so it is only after the second occurrence that he catches it and accosts her after breakfast, his tone bearing that concern which, in reference to her, has become a disquietingly frequent visitor._

" _Sybil," he begins. "I was looking over the ledgers and saw that you've just borrowed_ The Conditions of the Working Class _?" More of an accusation than a question, but she nods anyway, then holds her breath at his long, stifling pause. "It's just that I've noticed...that's twice now that you've taken a book right after Branson's returned it." His voice sharpens, the benign interview shifting towards the interrogatory. "He's not giving you recommendations, is he?"_

" _No." Sybil shakes her head, constructs an affectation of nonchalance. "There are so many books I sometimes can't decide – often I see what others have read, and if the titles interest me then take them." She beams. "That must be it!"_

_The waters of distrust recede from his eyes, and she thinks her explanation must have sufficed. But as she takes her leave, watching him as he watches her, she is unnerved to find for the first time on his face a glint of disdain surfacing, a bewilderment that the lovely creature that was once his third daughter could be willfully shaping her mind towards rebellion._

_The intermittent showers have kept them all indoors, but after luncheon they are graced by a dry spell, and she assuages her boredom with a walk, taking the opportunity to disclose the morning's detrimental event to her accomplice. She finds him and the garage in a state of disrepair, his arms deep into the underbelly of the car, fixing some part which he immediately explains to her and which she promptly forgets. The engine block is made up of a torsion of metal pipes and wires, a jumble of gears and gaskets completely foreign to her. But rather than rev up her curiosity as so many unknown territories often do, it only succeeds in repulsing her._

_But not its keeper._

_She leans over and peers into the bonnet. The voice emanating from underneath sounds sincere when he says, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get you in trouble."_

" _It's not your fault. And they're only books – hardly something I should get into trouble over."_

_She can just make out his smile under the tangle of parts. "People have been getting into trouble over books since words were invented." And after a gruesome crank which makes her shudder, he swings himself out from beneath the car and stands up, mopping off his hands with a nearby rag. "I only meant that I shouldn't have suggested you read them."_

" _Why not?" she says, shrugging. "I wanted to read them, and discuss them." Her smile is coy, conspiring. "I still do."_

_Indeed, sharing literature has gone a long way towards mending bridges. Not that they have been quarrelling, per se. But when their philosophies were thrown into the pressurized atmosphere of the war, every miniscule divergence, most often in the form dichotomous patriotism, became exaggerated, bloated to the point of even bursting into argument, on the rare occasion. And aside from that, he is loathe to lose the link, the talking point that brings her round so religiously to see him, and so quickly concocts a new plan:_

" _Then how about this – I'll let you read them right after I've done, and return them when you've finished." He tosses the rag onto a bench and smiles. "You'll have to read quickly. He knows I usually have them back in a few days."_

_They're agreed, and he busies himself with another tool, another problem that needs to be fixed. But she is in a loitering mood, and instead of leaving starts arranging a box of stray bolts._

" _I've never read so much since you came to Downton," she says, "and even before it was mostly just novels. There's a whole section in that library that I never dreamed I'd be reading." She looks up to see him watching her, and smiles. "And now I am."_

" _That's just a part of growing up."_

" _What? Becoming a better scholar?"_

" _Doing things you never thought you'd do."_

" _Like borrowing books from the chauffeur?"_

" _Like spending all your free time in the garage." His comment and the accompanying piercing look toe very close to the realm they've silently agreed is no-man's land. But it's an unalterable fact that she is here, and by her own choosing, more often than what is proper._

_She goes for the redirect._

" _And what about you?" Her eyes move down to the tiny piles she has organized, fingering each bolt individually as if counting treasure. "What are the things you've done which you never thought you'd do?"_

" _I never thought I'd leave Dublin, until I did. And then I never thought I'd leave Ireland. I almost didn't apply for the post at Downton. My family didn't want me to leave, and they can be a persuasive bunch."_

_She looks back up to him. "But you did."_

" _I did. And now I'm here." The unspoken_ with you _wafts with the heady scent of petrol between them. "We're nothing but our choices, isn't that what they say?"_

" _Well, I don't know who you're talking about, but I don't think they're entirely right. There's always that element of chance. You made the choice to apply here, but Papa didn't have to hire you."_

" _So it's all fate, then." He smiles. "Is that what you believe?"_

_Nothing about her moves except the focus of her gaze, now glassy and directionless, as she considers. "I believe in God," she says finally, her attention once again fixed on him. "And I suppose that's very near the same thing."_

**Providence**

Tom Branson wakes up on the morning of April 1925 to this headline:

_**Administration of Estates Act passed** _

He takes a sip of his steaming coffee. _So it's happened._

Quickly perusing the rest of the article, and then the rest of the paper, he finishes off the pot, alternating his gulps between swift bites of unbuttered toast, the conglomeration feeling a bit like stale mud in his mouth. Yet despite his usually unsatisfactory breakfast, he has the makings of a wry smile on his face when he puts down the paper and goes back to his bedroom to ready for the day. The great divide has been breached. Now those so prejudiced by gender and birth order can at last lawfully inherit the great riches of the kingdom. A true victory for that oppressed few percent of the population!

But in a fitting revenge, his ungenerous sarcasms soon take an unfortunate turn, for once his disheveled, morning face greets him from the mirror, up from the depths springs unbidden an enthusiastic voice. It easily takes him to task, speaking compellingly of the evils of primogeniture, how inequality and oppression are to be found and destroyed on all levels of society, each of the varying contentions of the issue corded up with the unspoken context of Mary and Matthew – _Is she still in love with him?_

And so it is with only two short leaps that his inaugurating thoughts of the day are conquered by Sybil, Lady Sybil, Lady Sybil Crawley – m'lady – that woman whose essence still maintains power over a majority of his waking thoughts, and the sum total of his dreams. For it does not matter if he breaks faith and chooses tea in the morning, for Sybil prefers two sugars to his one, or if he foregoes the pleasure of caffeine altogether, because Sybil once read him a passage out of one of her thick medical books about the addictive powers of the substance. If it is spring and he detours along the King's lane to work, lined with the flowering lilac beds, he will be done in by the first intake of the scent of her perfume. And if he takes the more direct route along the quay in November, a surely safer path for the number of distractions it affords, his gaze cannot help but to stray to the greying waters in winter, the same shifting color as her eyes.

He shaves, dresses, and packs up his few things into an abused brown leather satchel which he tucks under his arm, sweat already beading against his overgrown hair, trickling off his scruffy neck and dampening his collar from the warm front that glided in off the sea, and by the time he reaches work that morning she has already encumbered half a dozen of his idle moments. It is only when he sets his case on the desk, slings his jacket over his chair, freshens up his black-stained mug with a morning's supply of coffee, and actually sits down to begin his day that he actively works to banish her from his mind. He has found over the years that it is futile to do so any earlier; nothing but the strictest concentration holds any water in a battle against her memory.

The sound of her laughter in that last summer of innocence dwindles as he glances at the pile of messages scribbled onto the scraps of paper that await him. Their secretary is an ancient being. A sweet lady, she also possesses two inch thick spectacles, and owns a tremorous set of fingers that never fail in producing ineligible script. He picks up the top message and squints at the lines, and with his head cockeyed at just the right angle he can somewhat make out what appears to be one of his sources requesting him for a ring back.

"Read the news, yet?" a chipper voice calls from behind him.

Branson turns his head over his shoulder to see Jack Ferguson leaning against a filing cabinet, the morning edition in his hand waving overhead in a beckoning manner. He sets the message down and picks up his mug before ambling over, reaching him by the second gulp. "Over breakfast."

Jack unfolds the paper and they both look over the headline again.

"This is historic," Branson says, tapping the headline in emphasis. "Hundreds of years of precedence undone today. And all those antiquated laws that we've learned to put with." He shakes his head with a low exhale of awe. "I can't imagine how things will change after this."

"Change for some." Jack shrugs a shoulder in conjunction with his lifting eyebrow. "But I don't think _I'll_ be inheriting from Lord what's-it anytime soon."

Although she's hundreds of miles away, and despite his morning thoughts espousing the same line of reasoning, her transcendent influence has taken its toll, and he can't bring himself to quite disappoint her.

"Maybe not, but equality in inheritance is one of the first steps in acknowledging the equality of all."

"So the wealthy are all equal in their state of wealth, and the poor the same?" Jack smiles as he shakes his head. "Face it, Tom, this law does nothing to change the true ills of society. It barely scratches the surface!"

"Barely is still better than nothing," he tosses back to Jack's laugh, shaking off the image of an approving set of eyes which won't ever exist this side of the Atlantic.

They end up parting ways as the tempo in the office picks up, decamping to their individual work spaces until lunch, at which time they meet together again, chatting about the possibilities as they head outside for a smoke.

Jack offer the remains of his match as he says, "There's talk going around this morning. Heard they want someone to cover it on the ground – send someone to England for the rest of the month, doing interviews, getting a summary of events, the typical drill."

He had said it suggestively enough that Branson almost sees the finger pointing. "They're not going to choose me," he says bluntly.

"And why not? You've got experience with..." Jack weaves his hand, tracing the air with a thin stream of smoke. "That sort of thing."

Ah, yes. Branson's employment record. He laughs. "You mean those sort of people?" It's something of a private shame around the office. This particular paper is among the most extreme of the anti-establishment in Dublin, and make their employment decisions as such. But after reading a few of his samples they had been willing to take a flying leap of a chance, to forgive that he once driven cars for the enemy. He laughs again at that thought, wondering what they would think if they knew he had once wanted to marry one.

_That I had once almost married one._

She lingers long after the humor has subsided, and the idea of returning to the land which broke him suddenly becomes unsettling.

He taps out some ash.

"Where do you think they would send this potential candidate?" he asks casually, fingers trembling in his free hand as he stuffs them into his pocket.

Jack shrugs. "Oh, London, I'd say."

His fears abate but do not vanish completely at the word London – he will be safe in London – but are ultimately proven warrantless, for while they do end up sending someone to cover the story, they do not end up picking him, wanting someone with a bit more weight to his name to be the first responder to this landmark decision.

With no other eddies to disrupt him, Branson continues to live out the steady flow of his existence. He keeps a grueling pace, working most weekends and many nights, which goes hand in hand with his demoralizing social calendar: drinks on Friday with the boys, and drinks every other night by himself to round out his set of standing amusements. In the interim there are always the books and articles to be checked off his interminable reading list, and his mother has made it a habit to drag him to a family dinner at least once a month. But the roaring passions that his Lady once ignited in his heart seem now as dying embers in comparison, and what little heat remains has been transferred – a kind of rekindling, perhaps – to his native love for Ireland. To that end, his assignments are one of his last true joys – often local, but occasionally far flung across a country still embittered by the freedom foisted upon it, denied even the dignity of building up their new nation on their own terms. A country divided, hostile unto itself, even now after all these years of simmering peace, still ripped at the seams as he tries to reach across the gaps, hoping with every word he writes and thought he thinks that he is somehow helping to mend them.

And so the story comes and goes, the headline printed in his newspaper with someone else's name on the byline. It is not until over a year later, June of 1926, when the law is now half a year in effect and the ramifications beginning to make themselves known, that the spokes in his life at last begin to turn him in another direction.

Branson, for the third time, gives a puzzled look to the poorly scrawled message before knocking twice. He listens for the gruff command to enter, then turns the knob upon its receipt.

"You wanted to see me?" his disembodied head asks through the crack in Charlie Ford's door.

Charlie waves him in with a hasty grunt, as if too aloof or busy for the mundanity of words, and then directs him to the chair facing the executive desk. It's midday, and he's doing twelve things at once, one hand clacking at the keys, the other just setting down the receiver on the telephone. There is a handkerchief tucked under his chin, catching the errant bits of mustard dribbling from the Reuben he has just picked up. After taking another bite Charlie fishes into an unseen drawer while Branson sits expectantly on the edge of the hard wood chair, a small, persistent thud of nervousness pounding from his heart to his temples. It is not often he is called in for a personal audience with his exacting boss, and his breath shortens, wondering what misstep might have occurred on his part to provoke the meeting. But his worries are interrupted by a besetting curiosity when a brown folder emerges from behind the heavy wooden desk, which is then plopped like a bag of spoils in front of him. "We've got an opportunity for you, if you're interested," Charlie finally speaks.

"An opportunity?" Branson almost stutters.

Charlie nods to the folder. "Take a look."

Branson opens the file, flips through the topmost pages. Inside is a copied portion of the Property Act; an itinerary for travel to London. A brief profile on a landed Baron. None of it makes any sense, until Charlie explains, wiping his mouth as he goes.

"We want to do a feature, a sprawling op ed on the effects of the Property Laws." Charlie's flurry of activity begins to wind down, his slower pace granting leave to focus on his guest, and he catches Branson's look of mild surprise. "The law's now in effect, and things are starting to change. Of course it's all well and good to see a heap of statistics, but we want a catalogue of the real fall out, to get a personal perspective on the matter." Branson still looks doubtful. "Centerspread, two full pages," Charlie adds, then grins. "It could be your breakthrough."

Branson laughs. "That's what you said about the Four Courts standoff."

Charlie's returning laugh comes out as more of a snort. "Well lad, we've all got to earn our stripes somewhere, and some more painfully than others." He nods towards the file. "Keep going."

Branson does, and is soon unclipping a small portrait of a smiling, well attired man from the profile, scolding himself that a trip to the optometrist is well overdue as he squints at the name scribbled beneath. "Christopher Galding?"

"The second son to Lord Sheffield." Charlie balls up his sandwich wrapper and throws it in the general direction of the waste bin, where it spectacularly misses. "The elder Galding – the first son, I mean – is also a first rate reprobate – drunkard who's already squandered quite a bit of money at the races. Gambler, womanizer –" His hand makes small circles. "You know the type. Well, the father's had enough, passing him over for this one," he says, leaning over to tap the picture. "Now, Christopher – a regular prize thoroughbred. Made a name for himself at Oxford, known for his liberal leanings – up to his ears in charity work. And savvy. With all these landed toffs selling out, Sheffield Manor is turning over a profit. He's any father's dream heir."

Branson had been scanning down the profile, his eyes noting the impressive service record. "And a veteran," he says.

"Of course he is!" Charlie barks. "All of that lot is. A generation of war heroes, to the last of 'em."

"I suppose so," Branson replies with a small bit of tang, "in the war that mattered." He won't say it outright, but Branson is bothered. It seems the sort of assignment he'd have been handed down from one of the more popular circulations, not the niche, fringe market paper they are known for. His eyes narrow as if hoping to perceive the trick. "What's the catch, Charlie?"

"What catch? Why not highlight the freedoms England is handing out to its people? First inheritance, and universal suffrage is right around the corner. These are good things worthy of recognition in a free press." He spreads out his open palms. "How could there possibly be a catch?"

"Our stance towards England has never been complimentary. And there's nothing of controversy in a piece like this."

"We don't always have to be controversial."

Now Branson _will_ outright say it: "We are _always_ controversial. That's what most people hate about us, and what everyone else loves about us." He places the photo back into the file, then closes it. "I don't like it."

Charlie's figure leans forward into his steepled fingers. While at rest, without the diversions of constant movement, the larger than life persona is nullified, minimizing him, leaving only the wearied old man that he truly is.

"We both know the old divisions are starting to wear down," he says in a low tone. "People are still angry – they'll always be angry. But tempers have cooled. De Valera's got his party in line. They'll follow his lead. And if Fianna Fail puts aside the old battles, accepts the treaty, takes the oath, it could be an end to all of it."

Charlie's speech has tapered off. But he's stopped short, Branson can tell. His mouth is itching, there is more that needs to be said; and there is a coaxing in his silence.

"Go on?" Branson obliges.

Charlie's eyes quirk. "It's all a matter of persuading the majority."

"You mean our readers?"

"Our readers, the readers at _Saoirse_." He shoves himself back into his chair. "It's time to bury those injuries. And we can be a part of that – moving past England, past the war."

"So we're backing off, then?" he asks derisively. "Turning the tide of public opinion, one soft, treacly story at a time?"

"Let's just say we're changing trajectories - not much, just a degree or two. And this piece could be a start, a way to acknowledge that things are heading in the right direction – for England, for Ireland – and then, too, for everyone." He sighs. "We've all been burnt, Tom, and the scars aren't going to disappear overnight. But I'm tired, we're all tired. I don't care for this side or that side, I care for Ireland, and its freedom. To one day have a real Republic. And it's going to happen - not how we wanted, originally. But it will come. And it's time to lay the demons to rest."

And for all that Charlie Ford seems a careless taskmaster, he'd known just what buttons to press, what ideologies to caress and coddle in order to appeal to Branson's sensibilities, and before Branson can even begin to comprehend all the ancillary consequences of this decision his heart is already swelling in time with the "yes" on his lips. And leaving the office is a reinvigorated spring to his stride, a small flame of his old optimism, for if two opposing sides who had once so brutally and mutually wounded could lay aside their weapons, who knows what else this world could see fit to come to pass.

* * *

Branson is given a strict per diem for the assignment. They are not a wealthy paper, in particularly dry quarters barely breaking even, and so keep a tight leash on the funds. Accordingly, they bestow on him only money enough for two round trips on the ferry and train, one week's worth of lodgings and food, along with a bit of extra for incidentals – cab rides, supplies, and the like. He packs lightly and prudently, keeping the inclement weather forecasted into account, along with the discomfiting prescience that Mr. Galding may ask him to attend an event or two that would require his best suit.

Come Monday morning every sock is in place, the suitcase checked over three times when he snaps it shut and loads it into the waiting cab outside of his flat. It is the first time he has traveled farther than a day or packed more than a simple overnight bag since the failure that transcends all others, and after stepping reluctantly onto the creaking ferry deck, while brooding on the waters over, he is awash with an unwelcome deja vu. How heavy his heart was on the voyage over, and yet seven years later not a single ounce of it has lifted. Even after all this time he carries the burden of her with him wherever he goes, and if he never acknowledged the staying power of a broken heart before, he does so now in a reverential whisper – _what if?_ – lobbed into the carrying sea breeze, for the mere thought of inhabiting the same country as her, treading the same earth and breathing the same wind, seems to intensify every longing and regret ten fold.

The ferry docks with a lurch, fairly propelling him off the gangway as he debarks. He drifts through the commonplace chaos of the docks, his first order of business hailing a cab, and in five minutes he is seated in the backseat with his eyes closed, fingers pressed against the bridge between his eyes in a fruitless effort at quieting the echoes of the past, the driver's mouth mercifully sealed as he takes them into the city.

The bookings were prearranged by the office secretary. A happy situation for one so mired in his own personal distress, for rather than concentrate on his immediate maintenance, he is given leave to watch ponderingly out the window at the streets passing by. Before long Branson is gazing at the columns of square, stocky windows which adorn the many cheap hotels in the East End when the car begins to slow, pulling up to the curb in front of a nondescript grey building. Branson pays the fare, and has barely shut the car door before it peels away. He walks inside and registers at the front desk, is handed a key, then ascends the staircase to the darkly lit hallway. The room is small, the wide bed and blackout drapery enticing those with illicit intentions, the other sparse furnishings, a practical desk included, for everyone else. Overall the atmosphere is relentlessly busy – the air of the fully booked – alive with talk and banging, a loo on every floor at the end of the hall. He noticed on the way in a telephone in the lobby, and after dropping his luggage off he goes directly back downstairs and hands the receptionist a slip of paper with Mr. Galding's London number.

One short phone call and twenty minutes later Branson finds himself seated in an upper end club, all sumptuous drapery and leather upholstery, feeling like the lone lump of coal among a panoply of polished stones. The air is warm; smoky and dim. A light jazz combo plays at just the right volume so as not to be overwhelming, cooling off the ambiance as he partakes of a late supper of steamed fish and beer.

The real work will start tomorrow. Tonight, they had mutually agreed, is nothing more than a friendly chat, and for the most part the two men enjoy an amicable silence as Branson eats. But after the last bite and a final swig Branson asks, "Just out of curiosity – why did you agree to do this article?"

Christopher gives a wry smile, and lights up his cigar, and he suddenly appears as that portrait Branson held so many weeks ago formed into flesh – under the thin smile that same trimmed and combed mustache; that same dark, carefully parted hair. Handsome in his middle age; mid-forties, or perhaps older. And impeccably dressed. A dandy, Branson suspects, though it's obvious he tries to hide the high level of consideration given to his attire with an overall attitude of carelessness. But his demeanor is unguarded and sincere – unmistakably friendly, and more inviting than he might first appear once he starts talking with that palatable, unthreatening voice.

"I was approached, as you know," Christopher begins, "by Mr. Ford. We met once at a fundraiser for the Macintosh campaign that he was covering for his paper – this was before the war, of course." He stops to let go of a puff of acrid smoke as Branson lights his own cigarette. "After the Property Acts passed it took little time for my father to come to a decision, and even less time for word to get out. In January Mr. Ford contacted me about the possibility of doing the feature, letting the world glimpse first hand the effects of the laws. I'm to be the guinea pig, I suppose, and you the recorder of this first experiment."

"And you agreed, just like that?"

"I don't mind the exposure. My type of life isn't accustomed to much of privacy. And Mr. Ford spoke as if I'd be given the opportunity to express my personal philosophies."

"And that was the real draw?"

"To an extent." A waiter materializes with a bottle of brandy and two cut crystal classes. Each are poured a sufficient amount, and once the waiter leaves Christopher takes a slow sip with an undue amount of concentration, as if coalescing the fragments in his mind into some kind of coherent pool of thought. "You see, Father is handing over the reins to me, and I want to do things differently than he's done, than what's been done in generations past. I've been born into an enviable position, and I feel that with my birthright comes a certain amount of responsibility – a duty I would hope to impress upon my peers as likewise their own."

The concept of noblesse oblige and all the concomitant condescension is not something Branson is unfamiliar with. For him it's a time bomb of a topic, but he barely knows the man and so makes a sizeable effort to keep his features neutral.

"I understand," he says, with a shrug that he is positive conveys nothing. "I used to be in service."

And yet Christopher puts down the cigar, in one hand, the brandy in the other, and looks as if he has surmised his private thoughts.

"I know what you're thinking. But it's more than that," he continues, his light-hearted tone agitating towards fervency, a bursting gleam in his eyes. "More than stuffing the missionary's box with old clothes and making good on the pensions. I speak of true charity. The kind which calls for sacrifice, the kind which seeks no favors in return. And I don't see my generosity as an obligation. Quite the contrary – it's a privilege, I think. I've been privileged to be able to give more than I receive." He climbs down from his high, laughing with a slight shrug as he retrieves his cigar and drink. "At least that's the way I choose to see it."

Branson accedes with a nod. His cigarette is almost spent and he stubs it into the ashtray. He has yet to touch his drink. "And what exactly are you giving to right now?"

"At the moment all my energies are focused on the Foundling Hospital," he replies with a renewed, buzzing energy. "After an endless period of council we've arrived at the decision to move it to the country, finally getting it away from all _this_." The hand bearing the cigar makes a motion of disgust out towards the windows and the bustling streets beyond, as if in condemnation of the morass, the general populace living their lives unbeknownst to his judgment. "Crime, pollution; the sickness and decay." Branson nearly comments that they are currently seated in one of the most expensive and exclusive places in the country, but is stopped when Christopher leans over to sagely impart, "London is no place for children."

Branson's mouth nearly quirks. "And why is that?" he asks seriously.

"I would never raise children in the city. They need clean air and safety, not the disease which infests the very air." He shakes his head gravely. "They deserve better."

Branson knows the type, and the look which plainly tells him that Christopher has no clue what he talking about. While he may have some knowledge of a trench or the one-off orphanage, he has probably never once set foot in a slum or ghetto. But he does mean well, which is more than could be said for most others walking this self absorbed planet – himself included – and surely that must count for something. But all the same his heuristic impulses won't let it slide.

"And so who decides what's better?"

Christopher's eyes widen, as if unsure whether he is being tested or challenged. Instead of an answer he sets the remains of his finished cigar on the ashtray, asking, "You like to ask questions?" long fingers lifting his crystal glass to his lips.

Branson's fingers have begun drumming on the table. "I do. But mostly I like to hear answers. That's why I'm a reporter."

Christopher gives a faint noise of acknowledgment over his rim. "And had you always wanted to go into journalism?"

"Not really. As I said I used to be in service...but a friend of mine encouraged me. It was a million to one, but I sent in a resume anyway. I got my first job at the _Dublin Times,_ and then things sort of fell into place." Branson clears his throat and looks keenly across at his host. "But this interview's not about me."

"Don't mind me," Christopher laughs. "I thought we were just having a friendly chat!"

"Sorry. The reporter inside of me has forgotten how to take holidays."

"Well in that case..." Christopher says, and sets down his glass.

They dive into the gritty details. Christopher's mind spasms from one topic to the next. And he's vociferous, with plenty to say about all of them; yet not in a pedantic way, the kind of arrogated smarm that sets Branson's teeth on edge. He is humble without being self-effacing, and his altruism, just as he has claimed, is more ingrained than Branson had at first given credit. He has plans for the estate, plans for expansion and modernization that will secure his family for generations to come, barring any cataclysmic downfalls. As well, trusts are being erected for certain charity works that he holds particularly dear, as if to protect the money from the shortcomings of future generations.

"I've named myself as a lifetime trustee, and the other trustees shall be hand picked by me, personally, who will then pick their successors," Christopher explains.

Branson is jotting down, quick dashes in a language decipherable only to himself, and says without looking up from his notepad, "So after you die that money will be severed from your family completely?"

"In theory. Of course the stipulation is that a family member will always have a place on the board of each of the charities, and so will have at least partial say over how the money is spent."

"Seems wise," Branson concedes, notably impressed.

"I'm glad you think so. It's exactly what my father said, though he put up a small skirmish at chopping up the capital. But he has little choice in the matter. It's either Jack or me at the till, and he's disposed towards seeing the money thrown at orphans than whores, if you'll pardon."

Branson doesn't quite pardon, but knows his place well enough not to say so. "Right. And what does your brother think about all this? Any bad feelings?"

Christopher quickly raises his glass, dark liquid sloshing as he takes a long, contemplative sip. "He's fled to the continent with a small sum my father allotted him. I haven't heard from him since January," he mentions with the first twinge of somberness all evening. His eyes wander to the pianist embarking on an ambitious solo, his finger absently tapping to the rhythm. "Jack...he's always lived life with the assumption that everything will go to him, lock, stock and barrel, and so had never seen the need for merit. It made him arrogant, I think." He downs the rest of his glass. "And then came the war."

"You fought."

"Naturally. Our family's position is such that it was more a requirement than an expectation. My brother and I were even in the same regiment!" His spirits seemed to have resurfaced, but the ensuing laugh is rueful. "It strikes me as exceedingly odd, how the same experiences can shape two men so differently. Jack and I had, for all intents and purposes, the same upbringing – the same parents, the same education – yet even at a young age there was a wildness about him. It was fairly innocent at first, but over time it grew, like thorns and thistles, less benign with every year. The war was the tipping point. We were both at the front –"

"Yes." Branson nods. "I saw the record."

"Don't be fooled. Those old things are doctored up for show – believe them and you'll believe we all single handedly won the war." Tracing the rim of his glass with his thumb, he peers down into the remaining dregs. "In all honesty, we accomplished almost nothing, and were only there for a few months. We spent the majority of our time behind the lines, in logistics." He looks up again. "But being abroad, and in those circumstances... for myself, my time in France made me only more aware of how imperative it is to make the most of what I've been given. But for Jack, it gave lease to that innate malevolence that I believe he has always tried to suppress."

"You talk as if he had no say in the choices he made with his life," Branson says with some shock.

Christopher's eyebrows arch. "Perhaps he didn't. I look at my brother, and then at myself...and I become persuaded that in the end our measure _must_ be determined by something outside of ourselves: disposition, temperament...our natural inclinations, if you will."

Branson frowns. "So it's nature over nurture, you mean."

"Exactly." He lifts his glass in a faux-toast, fore finger pointing. "But for the grace of God go I, amen?"

Branson's laugh is sardonic. "I couldn't say. I don't believe in God."

"But don't you?" Christopher starts in with a small chuckle but it quickly crescendos, and perhaps it is the drink he has imbibed, but he seems to find Branson's blasphemy hilarious. "Well," he says after the laughter creeps down, "then what do you believe in?"

"As I said, this interview's not about me. But if I had to commit, I'd say I think people decide for themselves what they're going to be. Free will, and all of that," he says with a smirk, lifting his glass. "Amen?"

Christopher laughs again. "Fair enough. And perhaps you're right – but I've found there are those indelible qualities – whether we possess them or merely admire them. A part of us, always, no matter how much we might wish them eliminated."

The smirk vanishes as Branson brings his full drink to his lips, washing it down with a single, burning gulp. The truth is that his belief in God is currently unformed, amorphous and ever shifting as the clouded heavens where that no one or someone dwells. Yet how easily the contrarian had slipped into place to appease his inner man, the one that always begged to differ, to have the run of authority, to defy the powers that be – his natural inclination, as Christopher had put it, that his mother would testify existed from the first wayward kick to her ribs.

A part of him always – just as the face that daily haunts, conjured up by the remotest of reminders – always a part of him.

_Always?_

But he wants to be happy. To make himself happy. Will himself happy. Decide for himself, as he had insisted just seconds before, that he will choose to be happy. He makes the effort. He thinks he makes the effort. Where has that free will gone? For never a day goes by that he isn't thwarted, and he can't see any of God's grace in that.

Christopher's eye narrow with concern. Branson never had a genius for masquerading and his expression begins to mirror his mood. "Forgive me," Christopher says. "I don't mean to bore you with philosophy."

Branson raises his hand. "You didn't –"

"It's all right. And really, I should be leaving. I have plans tonight – a benefit gala to raise money for the Hospital's relocation. Cocktails, _hors d'oeuvre_ , and a silent auction in the back. We're hoping to raise at least two thousand pounds for construction of the new home, and of course money for transport." He leans forward. "Would you care to join me? It'd be a good opportunity to see what type of work I do."

Already exhausted, Branson makes a show of considering the late hour displayed on the clock, scrambling for an excuse. "I should probably get back to the hotel and get some rest. It'll be a busy week."

"Of course you'll do what you think you must... but please consider. I think you'll find the company diverting, if nothing else."

Branson picks up his glass. He stares into the empty bottom. "Free drinks?"

Christopher smiles. "For you there will be."

* * *

The mirror is only half an inch away from his face as he leans in to inspect the minor details. His eyes are bloodshot, cushioned by small creases that he definitely did not inherit from an overabundance of laughing. The face looks worn, deprived of the basics. He needs a haircut. He needs a new life, but that won't happen this side of perdition.

He pours water into the ceramic basin and splashes it onto his face, quickly shaves, then pads over to the wardrobe and pulls out a dark suit that smells of mothballs and cedar, a testament to its obsolescence in his life. His type of work, his type of journalism – current assignment excluded – doesn't lend itself to hobnobbing. The ink at Versailles was still wet when Ireland declared its war, and he'd left one battleground only to be flung into another, trenches formed of city rubble and the ash heaps of broken promises, an army of subjects turned insurgents, pushed to the breaking. And still smarting from the singe of his dalliance with the enemy, and with nothing to check his pursuant recklessness, he had eagerly joined the ranks, pen and paper in hand to inflame the public with every biased detail. And he bled green, a Republican through and through – or so he had thought while caught up in the throes of revolutionary ardor, and before the breach of peace when the real bloodshed began.

Now years later the dust has settled, but at times the deep ruptures in his country seem irreparable, after witnessing the comrade in arms turn to executioners at the behest of their conquerors. And had it all been for nothing? So much fight they'd put up only to lay it down now, and after all the rank betrayal. He wonders if it will be worth it, to take the oath, to solemnly swear to _be faithful to His Majesty King George V, his heirs and successors –_ knowing full well that every word is a lie and but a lip service in concession to the supposed greater good, a conundrum with which Machiavelli would have a field day.

But all of that for another day, as it always is as the night draws to a close, and at a quarter to nine he goes downstairs to the cab Christopher has sent for him. It drives him into Belgravia, to Upper Belgrave, and up a drive that ends at a palatial home that glows like a polished pearl with its white stuccoed walls and forest of electric lamp lights. Activity pulsates from within, people sliding in and out. A train of sleek cars lines the curb, several of '26 model Renaults, a smattering of Rolls Royce sedans, and he nearly begins salivating over a midnight blue Bugatti roadster.

But he's not here to swap stories about cars with the milling chauffeurs smoking out back. His prediction has come true, and he'll be consorting with the blue-blooded variety once again, only this time on the other side of the velvet rope. Christopher meets him in front and guides him up the steps, and for the second time in his life Branson enters through the front door.

The two walk in under the glittering chandeliers. Christopher begins maneuvering, making the rounds of acquaintances via way of the bar, that laugh of his trailing them everywhere. A half hour passes amiably, and true to his word the drinks have been plentiful. Christopher ends his conversation with a pleasant looking gentleman, and looks to be searching out the room. Branson tries to follow his eyes to find the culprit, but all the heads seem to have the same shaped bob or stiff, pomaded hair, and his vision is no longer the keenest, especially not when he's on his third cocktail.

But Christopher's eyes soon make a show of success. He raises a waving hand, signaling someone over.

"And now for my ulterior motives in asking you here tonight," he says. "I'd like you to meet someone. She's been instrumental in coordinating the relocation of the hospital, and has in fact been the inspiration behind much of my recent philanthropy. To that end, I think she deserves a place in anything you'll be writing about me."

"All right, then," Branson says, taking note. "What's her name?"

"Lady Sybil Crawley."

He has misheard. "I'm sorry?"

"Lady Sybil Crawley."

Was it his fourth drink or his third? "Lady Sybil?"

"Yes, that's right."

But he doesn't believe in fate. "Lady Sybil... Crawley?"

"Yes," he laughs. "Not the most common of names, I know."

And he didn't believe her. "You mean she's not married?"

The sound of a dying heart could be heard in his voice, but Christopher's spirits are high, and he only laughs. "I should hope not, since I'm planning on proposing to her myself!"

And Branson has no time to feel jealous, no time to feel anything, for in one breathless moment she is upon them, no more than an arms length away, and looking straight at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Administration of Estates Act passed in 1925 basically did away with entails, primogeniture, etc and ushered in what we now know as modern inheritance law.
> 
> The Foundling Hospital was a home set up for abandoned children in London, which actually was moved into the country in 1926. I have no idea if they had a fundraiser for the move, that part was artistic license.
> 
> Eamon De Valera was a figurehead for the anti-treaty group during the Irish civil war. This group was basically squelched by the much more heavily armed pro-treaty group, although both sides were particularly brutal and the aftermath left the country feeling bitter and divided. By 1926 things have calmed down. De Valera formed his own political party, Fianna Fail, which that year decided to take the oath which was one of the requirements of the original treaty and which had caused so much division during the war.
> 
> Hope that helps! And thanks for reading!


	3. Scars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really don't have enough words to thank mrstater. Aside from betaing these monster chapters she also puts up with all my pestering and keeps me on task. Also much thanks afraidnotscared for helping me shape this story.

_The country is thick into the lean years of war. Tact and prudence dictate the suspension of past years' extravagance, and last week, when the old year elapsed into the new, the Crawleys held only a lackluster party made up of close family and a few friends in celebration – polite conversation, bridge, tea and coffee – and when the ancestral clock in the evening parlor struck midnight to a round of half hearted cheering, Sybil remained quiet, gazing out of the window into the unreachable night._ It is 1916 _, she thought,_ another year for resolutions, another year for killing _– and each day that passes dilutes her sense of optimism._

_The war itself is an insatiable beast. It devours, discards all those familiar names like a picked-over carcass, the pile stacking high as her heart grows denser, an added encumbrance to her stolen youth as she seeks to navigate a world more fearsome and savage than she had ever before imagined._

_All this she suffers – alongside his recent attitude, which of late has not been helpful, ill winds from back home which have blown into him a moodiness that is temperamental yet at all times intractable._

" _Look at this," he says that afternoon. It is bitingly cold, she forgot her gloves when she escaped the house, and the tips of her fingers tingle like pinpricks. "They're going to start conscripting."_

_She takes the paper he holds out to her, shrinking a little at his contained outrage as she reads the headline:_

_**Military Service Bill introduced to Parliament** _

_She sighs, handing it back. "You don't know that. It might not pass."_

" _It's going to pass."_

_Sybil frowns. The sting in her fingers travels upward, and she rubs her arms against the encroaching cold. It's begun to bother her, she decides right then, the way he talks so surely of the future._

_And then with gall he continues on, gesticulating in his confident, irascible way: "And then everyone who was smart enough not to sign up for this war is going to be carted off to fight anyway."_

_Now she is more than bothered._

" _So everyone who enlisted is stupid?" Her hands fly to her hips, elbows akimbo. "Gregory is stupid?" she asks, volume rising. "Mr. Levine is stupid?_ Matthew _is stupid?"_

_He doesn't dare, but Sybil can tell he is just itching to roll his eyes. "I didn't say that..."_

" _Then just what are you saying?" She crosses her arms over her chest, juts out her jaw. Her father hasn't had it this bad for_ months _. "Well?"_

_He looks down to the floor. "I don't want an argument."_

_The matter could drop, if she will but consent to release it. But she's angry, filled to the brim with unspent wrath, and she won't let him get away. "Well, you've got one!"_

_He holds out his hands, warding her off. "I don't mean any disrespect. But I don't think the people who were lining up to get shipped to France when war was first announced exactly knew what they were signing up for."_

" _So they're just the poor, uninformed masses, is that it?"_

 _She knows she is being partially unfair, twisting his opinions into insults; but she has a box full of letters as her only testament to the dead with whom she will never again dance, and his words pierce deeply, a double-edged sword of audacity and brutal honesty. And he has gotten on her testy side, something not easily accomplished and even less easily absolved, and so she says with a step forward, "Well. Thankfully you knew better. And besides," she adds with a wave of her hand, "even if conscription does come to pass, you needn't worry. It won't extend to Ireland, and I know that's all_ you _care about."_

" _Right. All I care about is Ireland," he turns to say to the garage walls of Downton Abbey in Yorkshire, England. Then he turns back to regard her again, and takes his own step forward. "And suppose I do? It's my country, my people. What is it you care about? Your country? Your countrymen? They're the ones who willingly stepped into this war in the first place, and now they want to drag every man off to the trenches whether they want it or not. So if you're tired of the fighting and you truly want an argument, then I suggest you take it up with them, not the bloody chauffeur!"_

 _She opens her mouth, affronted, but nothing comes out, and after that she can do nothing else but walk quickly and stiffly away without even the impression of a goodbye. And why does he deserve a farewell? Why does he deserve even a conversation? Why does he deserve anything from me at all? Why_ do _I care what the chauffeur thinks? She stops –_ I don't _– and after a good stomp in the gardens her anger is mollified. But at dinner her appetite is fussy, half-eaten grapes and untouched puddings, which garner sidelong glances from her sisters, but mercifully nothing more._

_The breach gnaws at her throughout the week. She can't bear a visit, not to where he holds the upper hand, and there is nothing truly like neutral territory for them. But on Friday he drives her and Mama to Ripon for the newest exhibit at the gallery, and she decides that will have to be close enough. Mama prattles, she offers the unthinking, perfunctory replies, and he looks proper and dissembling as he always does while working. It is only after her mother has them stop, leaves them alone so she can speak with a passing friend, that he looks contrite._

_But still, her mother is four yards away, and he will not speak out of place._

_So Sybil clears her throat: "About Tuesday..."_

_And he whips around, practically gushing, "I'm sorry about what I said, milady. It was wrong of me to say those things, and very out of turn."_

_The storm has passed, and she smiles at what she assumes are clear skies ahead. "Oh, Branson. Please don't apologize. And not like that, for heaven's sake!" And then she laughs. Laughs, because it is not even their first argument, and she secretly hopes it will not be their last, for each time the rupture occurs they are eventually sutured back together, made stronger, she feels, and which she finds oddly comforting for all that it once wounded. And she laughs again, for she is fully convinced of this deduction, until –_

" _Then how should I apologize?"_

_He does not laugh. Rather, he stares intensely at her. And the seriousness of his eyes tells her he is not being rhetorical. Sybil looks down and away, biting her lip._

_But just then Mama returns, Branson's facade of professionalism returns as he hops out to hand her in, and Sybil is left to her disquietude, her hopes that they will never again argue, not even once, for there are only so many times they can scab and heal over before they will be left unrecognizable._

**Scars**

On her thirtieth birthday, Sybil arrives at Grantham House to a crystal vase bursting with a bouquet of white roses, along with a note which makes her smile as she reads.

Nearby, Mary spies out of her periphery as she fixes an arrangement on the console. "Those came for you an hour ago," she says without looking away. "Who are they from?"

Sybil slips the card into her handbag. "You don't really know him. His name's Christopher Galding. He's one of Lord Sheffield's sons." She presses her nose into a bloom. "Oh, but come look at them, Mary! They smell lovely."

"The second son?" Mary asks, clipping a stem.

Sybil closes her eyes as she takes a breath. "Yes."

"I see." Mary works for a minute more, appearing highly unamused by the disobedience of the camellias. "And do I need to feel sorry for him?"

"Well, I see no reason to. But I wouldn't let that stop you. I know how you like to make a habit out of feeling sorry for everyone."

Mary concedes with a conciliatory look her way, and a smile. "True enough. Except for Edith, of course, who always deserves whatever comes to her."

"I heard that," Edith deadpans behind her magazine from the chair between them, and Sybil laughs.

And once again they are all of them friends, and all of them enemies, just as it should be and shall always be, and so Sybil ascends the steps to her bedchamber and leaves her sisters to their eminent squabbling, a dual comfort in both the familiarity and distraction it affords. Once behind the closed, locked door and completely out of her sisters' line of sight, she shakes off her put-on levity, the easy laugh which she assembles with some difficulty, lying across the divan in her room with a countenance much more sober.

She is troubled. Christopher's gift is troubling. For in truth she feels that he may very well come to require Mary's condolences. He is nice and she likes him, rather – he did well in securing one of her favorite blooms. Indeed, his attempt was very close; except, of course, for what he could not have known: that Sybil does not like cut flowers. That she prefers her blossoms to be sprouting out of potted plants or gardens to seeing them shaved off for ornamentation. That she enjoys the earth, delights in the smells and messiness and creeping things of living flora.

That he is so close and so far short of perfection that she fears she can never accept him.

There is no logic behind it, she freely admits. If not even she can make sense of the incommunicable meditations of her heart, how then can mere words be expected to express the turmoil that bricks up it up into a keyless chamber, and which dictates each of her staunch, predictable refusals. But a year after Mr. Grey was shown the door, right after Captain Ashford's proposal had been politely declined, yet before Lord Tampyl became studiously avoided, Mary began to wonder, to the point where she cornered her youngest sister one afternoon in the East gardens of Downton:

_She reads amongst the daffodils. "You're not putting any hope in him, are you?" Mary demands._

_Sybil sets aside the book before making her reply, simultaneously innocuous and standoffish. "I don't know what you mean."_

" _Please, Sybil. I don't want an argument. I'm simply worried."_

" _Why? Aren't I allowed to_ not _marry someone without an inquisition? I didn't like him, not well enough to marry him._

" _And that's it?"_

_She shrugs. "Mostly."_

" _Oh, Sybil..."_

" _It's not what you're thinking. I know..." She swallows. "I know all of that is over. I know I'll most likely never see him again. But..." She grows quiet. "But I did promise him. I told him I'd stay true, and I keep my promises."_

" _Do you?" Despite the flimsiness of Sybil's reasoning and the potentially severe repercussions, Mary cannot help herself. "Because I once recall a promise to refrain from doing anything stupid."_

" _Well, you weren't very specific about what qualified as stupid, and I made my own judgment." Her arms cross. "Now are you finished?"_

 _Mary's voiced softens. "You don't need to put your life on hold for something you said years ago. No one could fault you for moving on, least of all_ him _. And Please remember that I am not the enemy. That I will always be your ally in everything."_

The tears had pricked, and Sybil could not describe it then, just as she is unable to now, the impulsions which drive her further out to sea and towards that deserted isle, her smile always bright as the beacons but marooned all the same. And rather than fold herself into her sister's embrace she had left, huffily and hastily, in her former petulant way, which she occasionally still relied upon to extricate herself from unwelcome inquiries. A return to form – that Sybil Crawley, the eternal rebel, living out life on her toes, no trepidations to keep her from plunging head first into anything that stoked the flames. And even years later that is still who she appears to the wider world at large, and often even to her own kin; but there were once those who knew her better.

_You're too scared to admit it..._

Ah, but she had been scared. And she still is – that resting, unnamed fear in Sybil's heart, intimating to the back of her mind that the excuse of her promise is surely only a blind to the truth which she refuses to own, which she will not own – even in this sanctuary where she lays by herself, hidden in the hollow.

The sunlight filtering through the windows begins to slant and her eyes become leaden. It was a busy morning, a tiring afternoon, and a late-day nap has come to call. She rebuffs its advance, for in these intervening years between her heart's exile and whatever as yet unimagined future lay in store, daylight and activity have been the salve to painful rumination. Indeed, it is always the nights which do the most damage, when her mind relaxes into the shade of all those _ifs_ and _maybes_ as she indulges in the unreality.

If she had asked his opinion, for one. That is always where the revisions start. If she had spoken to him of the misgivings that had germinated in the car, taken root on the way up the steps to their hotel, and finally blossomed at her sisters' arrival. If she had explained to him that _not now_ did not truly mean _not ever_ , then –

Maybe if she had changed her phrasing. Just a word or two, perhaps – _Believe it or not_ clearly did not answer. Maybe – _Believe me._ Maybe – _Wait for me. I love you._ Maybe – maybe if she had spoken to _him_ instead of to _herself_ , then –

If she had not _left_. If she had simply _stayed_ , then –

The visions of her altered futures disappear like sand in a sieve, Sybil left grasping as a fair-toned "Milady?" and a succession of light knocks wakes her with a start.

"Come in Fiona, please," Sybil addresses the peeking, white-capped head in the doorframe. She rubs her eyes, then stands and stretches, working out the kinks in her aging neck as the maid walks briskly in, unrolling her Lady's evening attire with a look of glee.

"I've just finished the new hem." Fiona's tone bounces as she gives the garment a shake, sending the furbelow of long, threaded drops dancing. The sheen in the fabric gives the illusion of sparkles, restoring Sybil to the present and elevating her mood.

"It's _gorgeous_. Come, bring it here!"

They share laughter as Fiona slips the dress over Sybil's head. Fiona plucks and pins, then dabs on the perfume, and finally the accoutrements are all laid and the last hook on her emerald colored gown is in place. It's silky and scanty, in the modern style, shorn off at the knees and putting her naked shoulders to good advantage. Fiona does her long hair up into plaits, and then mounts it into a bejeweled pile on the top of her head. A bit of the old world and the new, not so much clashing as melding together to create an appearance of one both in and out of the times – a contradiction; a mystery. And this is what continues to captivate even as her age climbs higher and the coffers in her family vaults disappear one by one with every bad turn in the market and new tax imposed.

Sybil inspects herself in the mirror. "I'll be late Fiona, so don't wait up." And after a sweeping, approving once over Fiona sends her off, precariously shod in a set of high heels as she floats down the stairs to the open admiration of her brother and sister.

Matthew smiles:

"I don't find it quite the thing to be abandoning us on your birthday." He helps her down from the bottom step and kisses her cheek. "You look lovely, Sybil. Now where are you off to?"

"A gala for the hospital," she replies, and pats a tuft of hair. "Edith's already out?" she asks Mary.

"Michael took her to a club. But she'll be at dinner tomorrow."

"Ah." Sybil makes to leave, then suddenly gasps and pulls a face. "And look, I've forgotten my bag!" She throws her bare arms up in the air and turns to go back upstairs when Matthew stops her.

"You're walking on a pair of needles, as it is. Stay here. I'll fetch it."

When Matthew's safely out of earshot Mary leans closer, nudging Sybil's shoulder with her own. "Matthew's right, you know. You look incredible." Sybil smiles shyly, for even after all these years a compliment from her elder sister still retains the power to send her blushing. "Now you be good tonight," Mary teases. "Who's going to be there?"

"Only a handful you might know. Gloria Chester. The Elliots. And Lucy told me she'd have stop in." She hesitates. "And Christopher will be there," she blurts out.

"Will he?" Mary says, the second eyebrow lifting in what Sybil can only assume is lucky triumph. "Well, in that case, I give you full leave to discard my previous orders."

"Mary, please –"

"I want to meet him," she steamrollers, linking elbows. "Shall I invite him for tomorrow's dinner?"

Sybil reclaims her arm with a smile. "Nothing so extreme, thank you. But if you're very lucky I might have him to tea one afternoon." She shrugs. "He's only a friend!"

"Only a friend who sends round flowers on your birthday?" Sybil's tightening smile is losing its patience, and Mary's tone and features wisely ease off. "Speaking of which: Happy Birthday, darling. Tomorrow we're having cake – Mrs. Dalton's got the receipt from Downton, the one with chocolate and strawberries that you like so much." She smiles. "Now, tell me I've done well, and then promise you'll save some for the rest of us."

Sybil laughs. "I'll save my appetite, and you'll be thankful if there's any left overs." She shrugs. "It is my birthday, after all!"

The tete a tete dies as Matthew returns a champion, clutching the small bag and handing it over. Sybil gratifies him with praise and then steps outside into the balmy evening, giving a short wave over her shoulder as the chauffeur opens the door, and then slides inside.

"Sheffield place, Belgravia."

"Yes, milady," comes the reply, and then silence. Sybil snuggles into the seat for the drive, then closes her eyes. What she struggles to see in the self-imposed darkness are those faint vestiges of a dream's imprint. Pockets of visions temporarily reclaimed – a port city in a constant drizzle, a family where every face is blurred but two, herself and the one standing beside her. And she relishes them, for she knows it they will all be gone by morning. And she hates them, for she knows they will come back to haunt her the very next night.

An automatous voice rouses her: "Five more minutes, milady."

"Thank you, Lewis."

And then she smiles at the man who has most likely not noticed the courtesy, habituated as he is to keeping his eyes fully on the road rather than halfway on the rear view. A stark contrast to the time when she could always count on a pair of observing eyes smiling at her from the mirror whenever she wanted them. Sybil suspects Mary made Matthew hire Lewis, a short, balding man from Wales, entirely for her benefit. Though Mary has never bragged over it, she feels it must be so, for the new chauffeur evokes nothing of the old pangs, and anytime Lewis does choose to rattle off in a way reminiscent of his predecessor it's inevitably about sport. Sybil appreciates it immensely, that unspoken kindness that defines her eldest sister, as well as the limitless invitation to stay with her and her husband in Grantham House extended after their marriage six years ago. She enjoys her life in London, and would not trade it for anything – for _most_ anything – and with her charities and her political groups and her saturated social calendar she has managed to piecemeal together a meaningful existence from the wreckage, inside perhaps still bruising from those deep damages, but in all outward appearances whole and healed – well-functioning, if though somewhat lacking in her former luster.

They arrive at Upper Belgrave fashionably though not unpardonably late. Lewis opens the door and hands her out, and she clacks up the steps one by one. Inside the gala is in full swing, bodies closely packed, the air swarming with talk, laughter rising like summer air. She pushes in, turning up her chin and casting about for any and all acquaintances. She sees Gloria, over animated in her usual way, who then pounces on her, aflutter with the newest bands sweeping in to town, and they converse for awhile. When the talk and Gloria's attention wanes Sybil moves on, wandering towards the bar when she catches Christopher's laughing eyes and upraised hand hailing her from the center of the room, and while heart does not soar or even skip it propels her stridently towards him with that undulating excitement she gets whenever he is near, the prospect of his company both an anticipation and a dread.

Sweat and scents mingle as she squeezes herself through the crowd, passing through conversations until she has reached him, and after a short minute she is directly beside him.

To Christopher's other side, companionably close by, stands a stranger. She thinks he might be looking at her, but Christopher immediately claims her complete intention with the fully intoned, "Lady Sybil!" and a hearty shake of the hands.

"Now look here," Christopher cries, "there's someone I want you to meet!"

And she smiles, turns to accommodate the introduction.

"This is Tom Branson –"

And anything said afterward goes unheard, eyes widening, mouth dropping with the same velocity as her hands, and her stomach, and her heart. And the whole of her is falling, collapsing through the floor and into a bottomless heap as she looks up to find herself staring into the face of her past.

* * *

The noise of the party is nothing extraordinary. Chatter, laughter, and that seamless flutter of movement all aggregate into a mild hum, while a string quartet whose breezy notes provide a measure of stability to the packed room plays unobstructed on a raised. Indeed, it is nothing but the background levels that anyone would expect at any crowded function – yet how it deafens.

Not quite a decade. Seven years. To the minute – seven years, four months, and twenty two days.

And here he is.

The room crescendos. Every sense overflows, rendering her mute, and Sybil feels she cannot stand one more decibel. And while she would call for silence, she suspects the cacophony is mostly due the screaming in her skull.

She opens her mouth. "I –" The air is not coming. "I need to leave."

And she does. Hastily. To the evident confusion of everyone but one.

"Lady Sybil?" Like a clarion call Christopher's cry dispels the brief suspension in time, moving it forward again. Branson watches her leave. His eyes are not the only ones following her as she weaves through the crowd towards an exit. "Perhaps she needed some air," Christoher says with uncertainty. "Rather stuffy in here, wouldn't you say?"

"Yes," Branson says absently, motionless save for his heart, which is as a stampede.

Christopher looks back to his journalist with narrowed eyes, the barest hint of suspicion. "I don't mean to pry, but I couldn't help but notice..."

"Yes?"

"You two seemed... acquainted?"

"Yes. Yes, I know her."

"Ah."

The note of peremptory inference snaps Branson back. "I was her _chauffeur_ ," he says, as if to disabuse any untoward notions, the irony of which flying completely overhead.

"Oh." A swift array of emotions passes across Christopher's face, one look melting into the next, first struck, then comprehending, and then finally slightly embarrassed. "Oh!" he says again, laughing with a giddiness that resembles relief. "Her chauffeur, yes, I suppose that makes sense. Drove them all around in their misguided youths," he prattles on, muttering to what seems to be only himself, a vacancy to his left side and to his right a mind no longer attending, and where one minute later stands no one at all.

* * *

The night is warm and graciously so, given her sparse attire and foreknowledge that she will not be going back indoors for some time. The vigor of outdoors refreshes her. Her breathing eases and her blood pressure spirals back down to nearly normal. Bodily, she feels none worse for the wear, and rather than lean against the cold, hard stucco wall to alleviate the last of the dizziness she walks several paces into what she realizes are the west gardens, appearing to any unobservant passerby undisturbed and relaxed, as if she had just stepped out for some air.

His sudden appearance threw her. There she was living out each uneventful day, and then in one life-altering instant confronted with the image of his very real face. Like a caged animal released into the arena. Fight or flight. And her instinct had chosen the latter, fled to the nearest door she could crash through. It was unlike her, to yield the battle in such a way; but she had come unequipped. Or rather, he stripped her of her natural shields, leaving her defenseless, just as he had always done. And so she ran, just what _she_ had always done, wherever he was concerned. And just what was she always running from? He is not her enemy, has never been her enemy. No, her true opponent is much more nefarious, one which she cannot name, which seems to abide within her and over which she has no control.

Couples and small groups wind through the larger paths, and she easily sidesteps to avoid, choosing the narrower ways that lead to the unoccupied enclaves, walls and rooftops of green that are dotted with flowers made monochromatic due the remote light of the house, the dim glow of the moon, awash in midnight air that is more blue than black. But her trail is not cold enough to stay hidden for very long, and she is unsurprised when she hears footsteps approaching.

They are not the vibrant, purposeful footfalls of Christopher. They are guarded and methodical, and she braces herself before she turns and sees him. He is nearby but still at a distance. He looks at her but he does not walk towards her. Instead he hovers, stalking the periphery of a wide circumference as if he isn't sure how close he is allowed. His hand disappears into a breast pocket, emerging with the necessary objects, lighting up a cigarette.

She glances over warily. Greetings seem superfluous at this point, almost gauche in their triviality. "You smoke?" is the first thing she thinks to say.

"I do now." He is staring at her. "Do you want one?" he asks, reaching back towards his breast pocket.

She shakes her head. "I quit." He looks partly astonished at the news. "It's an awful habit," she says as almost a challenge.

"You're probably right." He takes another puff.

"Tom."

The silence goes by. And then after what must be a full minute:

"Sybil."

The ludicrousness is getting to her. The banality sickens her. But what type of conversation are they meant to have? The only one that matters, she decides.

"Tom, why are you here?" she snaps, her mouth a thin line, fists clenched at her side.

"I'm on assignment. I'm writing an article about Christopher for my paper."

"Oh." She's not shocked, but she is. She had thought – she's not sure what she had thought. She had thought, for only a fraction of a fraction of time, that perhaps – "Oh. Oh yes, of course. Of course that's why you're here." She gathers her arms in, clutching her elbows. "I should leave," she says, and turns to make good.

"No, wait." He moves to intercept her and they meet at a junction, blocking her retreat.

Now she is close enough to discern the changes. Older, thinner. More world-weary, but that may just be the circumstances. His eyes are so blue even in the darkness that she looks away and to the side, biting her lip.

"Yes?" she says.

And in the corner of her eye she sees that his eyes are still on her but rather than lost they look to be thinking. Scrambling. "You're thirty today, yes?"

She nods. "You remember?"

He nods. "Happy birthday."

"Thank you." She looks down, uncomfortable. Everything is absurd and she hates it. And he won't stop looking at her. "You're staring."

"I'm sorry," he says, but does not look away.

She looks back up. Now she is close to angry. "Do you see anything interesting? Only you look like you're watching a very good picture."

"I just can't really believe it."

"What? That I'm still here, living in England?"

"No, not that. I figured that, but – But I thought – I thought you'd be married." And he is still looking, looking with longing, with eyes that appear rather broken.

And her eyes begin to cloud and shimmer, like two dying stars in the silver light. "No. No, I'm not." A vicious thought impales her. "Are you?" she asks without breath.

He shakes his head.

"I see." And then after a small minute of silence she starts a soft laughter which is halfway to a sob, shoulders shaking.

He does not laugh. Or cry. "And here we are."

Sybil's laughter dies in her collapsing throat. She swallows heavily. An incredible weight bears down over them, crushing them with a burden that feels more like waste. _Seven years_.

"Actually, I think I will have that cigarette after all, if you don't mind." And she extends a trembling hand.

He lights it before handing it to her, and she has just set it to her lips as Christopher comes booming towards them – "Lady Sybil!" – across the whole length of the courtyard with that inescapable laugh of his. "We've done it! Reached our goal and five hundred pounds besides!"

A brilliant smile immediately sets on her lips.

"How wonderful!" she intones with a joy that does not match her face, a failing she does not bother to remedy until Christopher draws closer, and as he does she slowly rights her features to the standard of expectation. When he's at last upon them he notices:

"What's this? I didn't know you smoked."

She stares down at the smoking stick between her fingers as if she has no idea how it got there. "I don't!" She throws it to the floor and stubs the remains out with her toe, then looks up at him with a smile as serene as painted glass. "Sorry to have rushed off like that. I hope you weren't offended, but I needed some air. I was fit to suffocate in that room."

"I know the feeling. I do so hate crowds, but in this case I'm very glad for the high turnout. Wonderful, isn't?"

She nods. "Yes! Wonderful!"

"And are you feeling better?"

She nods again. "Yes." She laughs. "Just needed some fresh air! And now I've got it I shall be just fine."

"Well then." He holds out his arm. "Shall we go back in?

"Actually... I'm awfully tired. I think I'll head home?"

He smiles fondly. "Let's have the cars brought round, shall we?" He faces Branson, whose presence has gone ignored through the entirety of the exchange, as Sybil makes her way towards him. "Tomorrow morning, Tom? Nine O'clock at Mervin's?"

Branson nods dumbly, staring at her as she fits her arm into Christopher's and he escorts her away.

* * *

She leaves the party at midnight. She is home not long after. She doesn't even so much as look at the bell, quietly slipping through the door and easing up the stairs with no one the wiser, darkness bearing at her back.

She takes out the pins in her hair two at time, leaves them a scattered mess on the floor. She twists her long, tangled strands into a sloppy braid, then undresses down to her chemise and climbs into bed.

She stares up at the ceiling with dry, pained eyes, enumerating the lost days.

She does not sleep.

And so she does not need to wake up, and redresses herself in the early hours, conceals the chaos of her hair with a smart hat, and is gone before first light.

But there is no escaping dinner, she reasons as she meanders along the promenades of St. James, alone save for her many, private agonies. Not when there is a special receipt for pudding come from Downton, and it is being held especially in her honor.

She arrives back home late afternoon. Her head feels as though an axe has been embedded at its base, and Fiona remarks on her drawn features.

"A late night, milady?" she croons sympathetically.

Sybil swallows hard, then smiles. "Yes. But it was a good party, and I'm looking forward to dinner." Her smile brightens. "Everyone loved my hair! There were at least half a dozen compliments on the styling alone." And Fiona beams.

* * *

Her birthday dinner is lightly attended. Only Edith and Michael, and Mary and Matthew, and herself makes five, the indefinite spare wheel. Her parents did not desire to make the trip down and she considers this a blessing, for their worry masked as criticism can only add to the welter bubbling under the surface. But she coaxes it down and smiles bravely on as they are served her favorite chicken dish.

The much aggrandized pudding is a flambe, and makes its appearance with the flourish that only a butler can manage. Sybil enjoys the performance but wonders how Jones manages to stay un-singed, and forces down her portion, the caramelized strawberries too sweet, the dark chocolate too bitter. When everyone is down to licking their spoons she rises, claiming exhaustion, and retires early.

No one stops her or even questions, and that should be her first clue. But she is so absorbed in the blow of last night that she is past any social insight, which was never her forte anyway, and after Fiona readies her for bed she sits at the vanity, props her chin into her splayed hands and stares into her ever reflecting self, her limitless anguish.

So much undisturbed time passes that she physically startles at the sharp rapping. "Come in?" The door opens to reveal Mary, tall and strong and oozing with comfort, and Sybil nearly breaks down in tears.

"It's past midnight," Sybil says looking back to the mirror. "Matthew doesn't mind?"

In the reflection Sybil sees Mary shut the door. "Matthew has no say." She sits on the edge of the turned down bed. "Come. Sit here and tell me how you're bearing up." Mary had been pushy before, but the benefit of motherhood and its required nurturing has turned her nearly warlike in her proclivity to protect those she holds dear.

Sybil leaves the vanity, sniffling along the way, and sits beside her sister. "You know, don't you?" She bends down and rubs her palms into her eyes, shooing away the moisture. Once tolerably composed she looks up again. "And when did you find out?"

Mary gives a lackadaisical shrug, but her eyes are serious. "Edith told me before dinner. Lucy went out to the clubs after the party and saw Edith. She mentioned something to her and Michael about being introduced to an Irish journalist."

"There must be hundreds of those."

"Yes, but only one named Tom Branson, lately of Yorkshire."

"Not quite 'lately.'" Sybil looks down at her fingers and begins fiddling with the drawstrings on her nightgown. "He's here to write an article about Christopher inheriting the estate." She tosses her head back, shaking her head with a smile. "Just my luck!"

"You never know. Perhaps it is."

"No." Sybil closes her eyes. "Don't start with that, Mary, Please. You didn't want me to marry him the first go around!"

"Don't be absurd. I'm not talking about marriage." She takes Sybil's chin, directing her aspect till they are looking eye to eye. "I'm talking about _closure_ ," she says. "The two of you parted so abruptly, with too many things left unresolved. Now by some stroke of mad luck he's here, and you might finally be able to close that chapter in your life and move forward."

"I don't know, Mary. He can't be here for very long. I could avoid him, I think. If I wanted to."

"And do you want to?"

"I don't know. I've never been good at sorting those things out." Never one to dwell, and even now Sybil must push herself to standing, must begin pacing, the movement agitating her further until she starts gesturing. "Everything's finished, and has been for so long. What purpose can there be, after all these years?"

"Stop prowling and come sit back down." Sybil sighs, and then obeys. "Often we build these things up in our minds. We let them overpower us, paralyze us. And I've found that sometimes what is best is to tackle them head on, if we want to have any hope in defeating them." She tucks her chin in till her eyes level with Sybil's. 'What does not kill us,' as they say."

Sybil shakes her head. "I still don't know."

Mary shrugs – "Think about it" – and then leaves.

Sybil shuts off the lights and lies down. And in the exonerating darkness she does think, thinks about how long she had hoped, thinks about how long she has ceased to hope, how she was so sure she would never see him again. She thinks about the incalculable, lonely hours she has spent clipping out articles, arranging them chronologically in a box sequestered in the back of her closet as she followed his career, from one paper to the next, reading and rereading his words in place of hearing them spoken to her. She thinks about how much she has missed that voice, how she had yearned for even a whisper, just a single breath of the fire. She thinks about how that voice has changed, the timbre slightly deeper, less expressive, but still with that power to unearth her, to chain her, to leave her sleepless from one night to the next.

_Believe it or not._

She thinks about her promise, and her stubborn adherence to it. And she thinks about closure, as Mary had said, and it is that word which stays with her all night and into the next morning, when she leaves for the debriefing for her Hospital's fundraising event. She arrives five minutes late, and finds everyone already seated, including Christopher. And Branson sits right beside him, with a face that looks tired and grave, watching her, a pair of stalking eyes that trail her from the door and across the room, where she takes the farthest seat available from the pair. She disciplines her eyes to stay fixed on the window until the meeting ends with the chairman's sharp gavel strike, and looking back over watches as he and Christopher rise as one. After sharing a private word Branson departs alone, making her decision all that much easier when Christopher asks her to lunch.

"I skipped breakfast and so I am rather hungry." She smiles. "Lunch sounds wonderful!"

Together they leave the building and walk side by side along the busy thoroughfare to one of the budding high-end bistros. She met him at one or another fund-raising function, and rather than nodding and yawning and moving on after having been introduced, became instantly drawn to her passion for the Hospital, and consequently her new partner in crime. She has found him to be, in the last half year she has known him, uncompromisingly generous. An eager wallet opens whenever and wherever it is needed, most especially when it is at Sybil's behest. And with so much in common their small talk is nice and companionable, only occasionally running dry.

"And what about the buses?" he asks.

"I've found a company who will let them out at a discount. We'll get it for half the price."

"Splendid! Then we won't have to worry about next winter's coats."

"Is there anything else?"

"Not that I can think. Except that if I haven't mentioned it already – you looked lovely last night."

She smiles. "Thank you." Then smiles again. In fact she always smiles when she is with Christopher. It is impossible not to do so, for he is the type of person that makes one smile when one is with him. And although he ignites none of the broiling passions, she is now thirty, and feels she is fairly gone beyond that stage anyway. And besides that he is good and kind, careful and conscientious, a man who will make some woman a happy wife one day.

They walk in companionable silence till they arrive and the host seats them. They are brought strong tea and sweet biscuits, and handed elegant menus. He is pursuing his when she steels herself, then says lightly, "So your reporter's come at last."

"Yes." He laughs and sets the menu aside. "It's been something of an experience, having this shadow cataloging my every mood. And all the questions!" He shakes his head as if trying to fathom the lunacy of it all, then calmly sips at his tea. "But he seems a good fellow. Smart, I think, but possessed of more than a few odd views."

Her frown is hidden by the menu. "Not _very_ odd?"

"No, not _very_ ," he chuckles. "But his first night here he told me he didn't believe in God. Not something I expected to hear from an Irishman, I must say." He takes another sip, this one longer than what seems necessary. "But I suppose you might have already know that. He told me you two were acquainted," he says a little too offhandedly.

Sybil clears her throat. She puts down her menu and smiles. "Yes. He was our family driver, from years ago." She stops to take a drink. "I haven't seen him in ages. When I saw him at the party I was..." She searches for the word, heart racing. "Shocked."

Christopher's hands fold together, and his smile is placid enough when he says, "Yes. I suppose you weren't expecting him to reappear, and in that capacity?"

"You mean as a journalist?"

He inclines his head. "As journalist, as a guest at a charity ball. I know if my childhood chauffeur showed up unexpectedly as a guest of a peer I'd be shocked as well."

Sybil's mouth opens, then closes. Then opens again as she says, "Well, I wasn't a _child_ when he worked for my family. And when he left I assumed he would –" She stops, angling her head as she watches a pram stroll by. "How long is he going to be here?" she asks reaching for her cup.

"Only this week. He leaves on Monday, I believe." The waitress comes and takes their order, and when she leaves he continues: "Friday we've made plans to visit Camsbury House, just to give him an idea of the estate and what types of changes I'll be implementing." He looks inquiringly at her. "You've never been, have you?"

The old barriers quickly rebuild. "Been where?"

"To Camsbury," he says with a small smile, and a pair of unconvinced eyes.

"Oh, yes!" she laughs. "Of course. Um, no. No, I don't believe I have. Actually, I don't think I've ever set foot in Kent. We were to go to Dover, once, when I was twelve, but Mama caught the flu."

"Then would you like to come?" Her face and mouth work together to form the beginnings of apparent protest. "Now before you say no," he says, raising a hand, "it won't just be Tom and myself. I've invited Gloria along, and I've arranged for a few outings, as well – just a daytrip, really – I'll even pay for the fare!" His eyes dance. "Consider it your birthday present."

She looks sidelong as the corners of her mouth unwilling lift. "But you've already given me one."

He leans forward with a warm grin. "And did you like them?"

"I've had them put up in the parlor, and I've had nothing but compliments. Even Mary likes them, and you know how hard her approval is won."

"Well. I'm glad they were a success." After a moment of quiet he asks, "So will you join us?"

"I am rather busy..."

"Of course if you're schedule doesn't allow...but I would very much like you to see it."

He may as well propose on the spot, she thinks, for there is no doubt that he hopes her journey there will be one of approbation for her future home. Yet whether or not she will one day be Christopher's happy one is a mystery she cannot divine. Much like the battlefield, she thinks, where one can be never tell what their mettle will be in the deciding moment.

She picks up her cup for the last swallow, feeling the tension of the quandary, refusing this man for the sake of another, or vice versa, a tumbleweed of confused emotion wuthering inside of her, and she's not sure for which man's sake she should make her decision, to avoid both or to see both, until in the back of her mind comes a command strong and sharp, Mary's voice guiding her:

_Closure._

She sets down her teacup with a clank. What does not kill us makes us stronger. And so it is only for her own sake that she answers:

"Yes."

And then prays that it won't kill her.


	4. Perjury

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has been reading and reviewing! I've really enjoyed reading the comments and people's thoughts. Also another thanks to Mrstater for betaing this chapter and all her wonderful insights. This chapter was particularly difficult and she really helped me iron out the direction of some of the sections. Nothing else really to say, except if you want to hear the song that appears in this chapter you can search on youtube for Paul Whiteman's "Wonderful One."

_There shall always be those infrequent and momentous turning points in a man's life, the ones which, when they occur, will render him unable to ever forget his exact position in the universe. Summer of 1914 – the smell of freshly cut grass, the latent warmth of a hand within his – an announcement of war that would lead to millions of corpses. Easter Monday, 1916 – the last of the Simnel cakes apportioned and consumed, nutty sweetness dissolving on his tongue with Daisy to his left shucking snap peas – and the first of the telegrams arrive._

_Carson hands him the correspondence with as much gravity as he performs any task –"For you, Mr. Branson," in deep, theatrical tones, and then bypassess the confused chauffeur to amble on with his day. The bike messenger is already half way back down the park and unavailable for questioning as Branson unfolds the missive with a frown, reads the three succinct lines, and turns ashen._

_The world's axis has just shifted – but not for anyone else, the whole of the hall continuing with their miniscule talk and duties without abeyance. Only Daisy is close enough or perceptive enough to notice the way his mind seems to be quaking, and the only one who watches him leave._

_But news travels quickly in the insular habitat of manor life, and by noon everyone downstairs is whispering and wondering, gossip spreading thick as clotted cream in the corridors, and just as delicious._

" _The whole city in flames."_

" _Well it won't be taken lying down! They'll get what's theirs, just as soon as the swaddies show up."_

" _I'll thank you not to speak another word on this highly inappropriate matter," Carson will be forced to say during dinner, or at least he Branson imagines it so over the untouched plate in his cottage._

_And then one by one each member of the family, seemingly on an unsourced whim, the type which infects all of their decision making, declare they don't really need the use of the motor today after all._

" _That errand can surely wait till tomorrow."_

" _I'm not very much in the mood for dinner at the Big House."_

" _A nice day for walking," Lady Grantham will be saying over tea, the girls all nodding along gamely, and Sybil perhaps wondering why no one ever says what they mean._

_He doesn't ask permission to go down to the village that day, or the next day after, to wait impatiently in the long queue of pushing, anxious emigrants, and he is not rebuked when he comes back late into the evenings, and as silent as anyone in that house has ever heard._

_Not that there is much for him to say, when all week long no one dares anything, not even a suggestion, least of all a comfort. And what could they say, he wonders. What cordial could be offered that would douse the flames that burn at this heart, and the home where it resides? And so they scuttle along their business that day, and the next day after, each face banishing his existence for the sake of its own convenience._

_His social quarantine finally lifts at the end of the week, when the insurrection is put down and its perpetrators arrested, by Sybil toeing timidly into the garage, visibly afflicted – the most honest face he has seen all week, and even hers bears the creases of caution, mouth guarded like a bulwark, murmuring only a quarter of what she means._

" _I read the news," she says._

_He flips a page in his newspaper. "Yes."_

_They are silent for awhile. Then, abruptly – "Papa calls it treason!"_

_The words are almost thrown out: "Of course he does!" Then a retraction of sorts as he remembers himself: "I don't think you should tell me what he says," stiffly and properly as befitting his role, and he goes back to his paper._

_But Sybil will have none of it. "But why not?" she asks in her most familiar way. She steps up close to him and throws up her arms. "Because he's my father? Because you work for him?" She pauses. "Because you're his_ driver _?"_

" _Because it's not my concern what he thinks, and it's not your place to tell me."_

" _Then what is my place, if not to –?" She stops on a dime as his eyes grow earnest, willing her to submit to her usual complaint after a boring dinner:_ Why can't people simply say what they mean! _She deviates: "I'm sorry. I didn't come here to quarrel." And then graces him with a long look from those big, beautiful eyes. "You must be upset." She looks upset. On the verge of tears, if he can think such a thing is possible. "And what I really came here to say was – I hope – I_ do _hope – that everything is all right?" That English circumvention that so tires him has once again robbed their conversation of the specifics. "Your family?" she edges in without quite hitting the mark._

_But for all that her concern is shrouded in generalities he is still thankful for it._

" _They're all fine."_

_His response acts as a touchstone for her smile. "I'm so glad."_

_And she looks glad. Relieved and glad, every detail in her face an honest correspondence – and he had lied. Lied through his teeth, for they are not all fine. One of them is dead. Two more a widow and an orphan. And all the rest in mourning, frocks and suits and hats of black, the blackest of black for the murder that will forever be engraved on the record books in cold hard ink as collateral._

_And he had lied, but not for the first time, nor indeed for the last, for there are a thousand truths he keeps drummed up inside, truths that he knows she does not need or want to hear. And so for now all he will say is:_

" _Thank you. For asking after me."_

_And then take her smile too close to heart, covet her close presence a little too strongly, and let the fondness in her eyes chisel more deeply into the spider cracks formed across the dam in his heart, a dwindling countdown for the truth to unleash._

**Perjury**

Thursday morning Branson wakes to a pounding in his head and a pounding on his door, a loudly barked insistence that he please come down and take an urgent call at the reception desk. The curtains are drawn, sharp pieces of sun eking their way around the edges which his maladjusted eyes have no desire to suffer prematurely, and he dresses and readies in the brownish gloom of muffled daylight.

The receptionist sweeps the floor – a polite enough distance away but still within the busybody range of earshot – when he reaches the phone and brings the receiver to his ear. As par for the course Charlie eschews any niceties, opening with, "What's the status, Tom?"

Branson frowns into the line. "They told me this was urgent."

"I'm your boss, I decide what's urgent. Now, how is everything coming along?"

Branson closes his eyes, pinches near the bridge of his nose. Unbeknownst stands the towering conflict that has taken away all perspective for his supposedly unbiased article, but –

"Without a hitch," he says.

"Good." Charlie pauses on a low grunt. "And remember to mind your budget. We're not reimbursing anything that comes out of your own pocket."

"Do you ever?"

"And hire out a photographer to snap a few pictures of Christopher, maybe at his London home – or better yet, down in Kent."

"I can do that."

"And I want you to start on with a draft as early as you can – today."

"All right, then."

"And have the whole thing finished by Saturday so we can squeeze it into the Sunday morning edition."

The last part shocks Branson out of his mindless nodding, his mouth agape. He assumes Charlie had tried to slide it in there, drop the bombshell with all his casual aplomb, as if everyone should be as unaffected by the flying shrapnel as he. "That's the first I've heard of this!"

"A change of plans," Charlie replies, a shrug in his voice.

"I won't have time for it," he argues. "That's a tall order you're asking, and all of tomorrow will be taken up by the trip out to Kent. Why not save it for Sunday the week after? What's the rush?"

"It's just the timing of it. This Sunday's when we've scheduled it in; the pages have already been cleared and we've got nothing to put in its place."

"You're not leaving me with a lot of room, here!"

"So start an outline now, and hammer in the details Friday night!" Branson hears the clamor in the background, the bang of a desk, the clatter of the fallout, and then Charlie heaving a tired sigh. "Look, Tom, you've done how many articles in a pinch? You'll do this one more, and then you'll have nothing hanging over you when you come back Monday morning." Steaming silence answers him, and he offers a consolation: "Why not consider Sunday a free day to do whatever you like?"

"Except anything that'll cost money?"

"That should go without saying," he says with a short laugh. "And you can come back early, if you like. Take a day here. We'll even pay you for it!"

For all the time he puts in they pay him a pittance as it is, and Branson, sensing he's being fed only half the story, and refusing to be mollified, mumbles a brusque reply, not quite slamming the phone but startling the receptionist who has covertly sidled up nearly next to him. He casts her, the ever present ear at the door, a wilting look, scurrying her away with visible shame as he glances at the clock – quarter to nine. He heads out for a makeshift breakfast, the nearest vendor selling the cheapest fare, a large carafe of coffee which he pours into a smudged glass provided by the hotel clerk, and by nine thirty he has begun.

He spends the next few hours going through the majority of his notes, rereading, cataloguing, annotating, rereading again, splaying them on the desk in organized layers, and then starts in on a skeletal draft. And while his penmanship under normal circumstances is good – neat and precise, lacking in flare, perhaps, but distinctive enough for recognition – as he begins parsing through the notes taken at yesterday morning's charity meeting he must squint at the wobbly script tapering off to nothing, as if he was writing without watching – or at least not watching what he was writing – and finds that only one quarter of it is usable.

After breakfast is consumed and metabolized he sustains himself through the process with the closest thing on hand, the empty calories of a slowly nursed glass of watered down scotch from the night before – hell in a bottle, or so Mam used to say while giving that rare misty-eyed look, tinged with bitterness by the moue in her mouth, as if she could taste the sour liquid on the drunk kisses of his father. She'd have mightily preferred if he and his siblings had abstained their way through life, conducted a pious avoidance of any and all of the declensions, especially the drink, any fumelike breath earning a sharp – _A man takes a drink; the drink takes a drink; the drink takes the man –_ and the scourge of her disappointment. And while she hadn't been overjoyed by his removal to Yorkshire all those years ago, she was proud of the upward projection in her son's life; but little could she have known that he was packing off to his ruin, taken not by drink but that other influence with the power to undo a man. And whenever he visits home she looks for it, the vice that keeps him just this side of haggard, wondering what, why and how, perhaps even sometimes who, for there is never anything on his breath but the absence of the joy that used to alight every facet.

Thoughts of his mother have always been linked with food, and suddenly he becomes aware of the mewling pangs in his stomach. Another glance at the clock alerts him that it is a quarter past one. He realizes he'd skipped lunch, and with his progress almost nowhere he puts down his pen and descends back to the lobby where the receptionist still can't look him in the eye, simply hands him the phone, her nose too busy scrutinizing the guestbook. He rings up Christopher, asking him to change out their dinner meeting for a lunch so he can spend the evening hours, his best hours, working, and they are just settled into his club's dining room, first bite of roast lamb in Branson's mouth when Christopher gets a museful gleam in his eyes.

"I do find it rather strange, though, your connection to Lady Sybil. I'm always hearing how small a place the world is, but I never imagined." A lofty hand raises his wineglass, whirlpooling the liquid inside. "You knew her before the war, yes?"

Branson puts down his fork, the thought of eating suddenly unappetizing. _Lady Sybil_. She is Christopher's favorite topic of conversation, and though Branson will never be inured to the casual use of her name, the long and chronically aching years have at least calloused over the most vulnerable parts of his features.

"Yes. I left my old post in Ireland and came to Downton in 1913."

"I have wondered..." he drawls. Christopher's face usually contains a kind of easy pliability, but it softens even more, as shapeless clouds in its dreaminess. "Tell me, what was she like as a young woman?"

Branson keeps a level stare. Indignation would be uncalled for, but he can't help himself:

"She's still _young_."

But Christopher appears to be in particularly fine form, an unrufflable mood, and he simply smiles, takes a sip, savors, and swallows. "You're right, of course. A younger woman, then. And I only ask because I have a few recollections I want expounded on, if you're able?" Branson nods. "I remember hearing some rounds of gossip back when I was a young man." He laughs. "A _younger_ man. This was before I met her, of course. Something about pantaloons in the drawing room...?"

Branson tries, but his mouth begins to tug. "Well, there it is. You've got your answer. She once wore pantaloons to dinner. She would sneak out of the house. She was...unpredictable." He shakes his head with a loose sort of laughter. "She liked to test limits, especially her parents'." He shrugs. He's lost this round, and lets go of the evidently fond smile. "She was fun."

"That's exactly how I pictured her. Full of life and fire, and always getting into a bit of mischief, I imagine?" And Branson loses his smile, because Christopher's eyes lacquer over as if he is imagining at this very moment – Sybil, perhaps, spicing up the halls of his own dull country seat.

He looks off to the side. "The truth is I really shouldn't be talking about it."

"I suppose you're right. Discretion, yes? The hallmark of the good servant." He tips his glass. "And I suppose of the good reporter as well."

"Well, that all depends on the context," he replies, pleased at finally having a conversation he can sink his teeth into. "We want the truth to out but we don't want to do any harm in the process, at least where it's undeserved. We want to protect where we can, and sometimes that means hiding certain bits of information."

"Well. I shall give you full marks for both your occupations – I couldn't do it. I wouldn't be able to live a life of facade, always dealing with half-truths."

"Maybe. But half the truth is better than none, and it's still not quite like lying."

"Define a lie?" Christopher's head tilts, his eyes alive. "The obvious, of course, it to speak what is untrue. But there is also what goes unsaid, those lies of omission."

And perhaps it is only Branson's mind taking a turn for the fanciful – But do his eyes pierce? Does his face grow drawn in a silent reprimand? Branson has no idea what type of conclusions the man has made concerning his reporter and his Lady, if he has sensed that he is being fed only half the story, the thousand truths that Branson has omitted: How he had arrived to an empty room, vanquished and distraught, no one waiting up for him to ease his distress save half a bottle of cheap scotch. How he spends his nights trying to forget that she is not married, and he not even attached, drinking himself to sleep. How for the last seven years he's felt ripped in half, every step he takes dragging the past like heavy chains behind him.

He leaves lunch shaken, and tries to reopen his mind into getting the bare bones of his draft fleshed out. The desk in the hotel is quite small, but comfortable enough for one. Compact yet suitable – his preference – the overly large having the penchant to unnerve him. And the hall outside is noisy. Babies wailing. The thud of feet flying up and down the floorboards. Loud and boorish, a distraction for some but for him a natural barricade that he has come over the desultory years to rely upon, to crave, more and louder - enough to rival the big bands on opening night.

A small desk in a busy hotel – he could very well be back in his Dublin office for all the requirements of productivity, and yet half a minute cannot go by without his thoughts rabbit trailing, the last words over lunch springing back into his mind:

" _Lady Sybil's coming with us?"_

_Christopher stops, then looks confused, for he'd uttered that small and inconsequential factoid a good two minutes before, when he had begun rattling off about tomorrow's sojourn to his estate. "You don't mind, do you? She's never been so I've asked her to join us. And seeing as how you two are already acquainted..." His eyes grow wary in their concern. "You don't mind?"_

_Branson shrugs, lips to his glass. "Why would I mind?"_

So long it's been. So much there is to talk about. He once feared he would never get the chance, and now chance has smiled upon him, proffered him this gift in the hands of the enemy.

But no – Christopher is not his enemy. He's no longer a claimant to her affection, any court of law would have judged him unfit for the role when he fled in fit of pique over seven years ago. And so he's made his bed and he can no longer continue to let her into it, for if she conquers this – his work, his passion – his last battle ground standing after so many years of loss – it might occur to him with every jotted sentence that he's writing out a modern day fairy tale for his prince, that in time he'll claim his princess and take her back to his castle, the one he's visiting tomorrow, to fawn and compliment and wish him well in life, his Sybil at his side.

The last of the scotch is gone, and Branson looks down to his draft. There on that small, comfortable desk lie the fruits of his labor: six pages of writing, but only a smattering of paragraphs that bear any hint of his assignment. The rest of it – long, dribbling sentences with no beginning and no end, verses on the cruelty undying love. Spare sketches of her face at midnight, in the light of an upcoming country day.

And thinks that tomorrow lightning had better strike him with inspiration, or it may as well strike him dead, and he's not sure which fate he hopes for as he shuts off the lights and climbs fully clothed into bed.

* * *

The party convenes upon the Friday morning rush hour at King's Cross and, true to his word, Christopher has paid for her fare.

His brown trilby moves like a fish out of water amidst the sea of drab commuter fedoras, a splash of the opulent striding eagerly towards her. "Lady Sybil! As promised!" He delivers with fanfare. "Your ticket!" he cries, and her heart does stop for a beat at the transporting words, her eyes sweeping askance to see if the one standing a few paces beyond has overheard them, and in his unblinking gaze, cast intentionally towards her, she believes she can hear him thinking aloud – _he is your ticket_.

But she is not boarding a train to a new life. Rather, she will admit, she boards it to canvass out a possible future, one which bears a disconcerting resemblance to her past, that ancient lifestyle she has tried and failed to outgrow with the comprehension that her sense of self, those youthful yearnings for adventure, had been quashed somewhere in between tickets and promises.

 _Closure_.

A sharp whistle punctuates the thought, and then she hears Gloria, the fourth in their party – "my second visit to the estate" – mentioned to Branson who nods with an interested smile. "I'm something of an orphan, you see. My parents have abandoned me in service to their Country – Hong Kong for the next two years!" Gloria laughs and casts her a smile which she returns without hesitance. "But Sybil and Christopher have determined to take me in. And who could ask for a better pair of caretakers?"

They board the train, all of them cramming into a private car in first class. Christopher sits beside her; the other two sit opposite, the large gap erecting a sort of natural partition between. The interior is a trifle stuffy with summer's humidity in full swing, but the train whistle blows and the wheels turn, the movement invigorates her and Christopher's company has always been pleasant. And for the first half of the journey she is enrapt by his sole conversation, has hardly even noticed the way Gloria fawns shamelessly over Branson, or their prolonged and easy discourse. How quickly his smiles come when they are directed at her, or how she chatters with becoming laughter in her eyes. How well they seem to get on.

"Lady Sybil?" She turns to Christopher. She cannot remember the last word he said, or how long ago he had said it. "Yes!" she says, an answer and a question both, a meager attempt to cover.

Christopher does not appear fooled. "I was asking after tomorrow's rally. Were you planning on attending?"

"I believe so. I don't have any other plans, and I promised –"

"And I'm going with her!" Gloria interjects with a shrieking laugh. She turns to Branson. "Sybil's taken me under her wing, you see, thinks I've got the makings of a real suffragette!" She holds her head up high, chin out, a little smirk of triumph at play. She is young, only a few years past her debut, and for some reason seems to esteem Sybil's regard. A creature of the times, she had shorn her hair six months ago out of a defiant zeal after a row with her parents, a wild tuft of blonde that does not very much suit her. But her posture does it justice, the careless way she maneuvers her long joints and limbs, sharp elbows and a pair of sinewy legs that she crosses with a lazy sort of confidence.

"Does she?" Branson asks, his face turned towards Gloria but his eyes on her, and so she can't make out for whom his small, amused smile is intended.

Sybil smiles tightly, clenching a fistful of green-checkered fabric in her lap. "She does." After that initial, palpitating meeting she hoped the worst was done with. And though now proven wrong and smarting for her naiveté, after so many years she has at least learned to cloak her wounds with the bandages of indifference. "Or she _would_ , if she didn't keep skipping out on doing the work of a suffragette."

"It was only twice," Gloria says, whipping her head towards Branson. She grins. "And of course she's never let me forget it!"

"The only two times you ever committed, yes?" Christopher says with a slight chuckle.

She tosses her back her head with a laugh. "Well now I've been caught! But I won't disappoint you this time, Sybil – I _shall_ be there."

Sybil relaxes her smile and her grip. Still just a baby, she thinks, then feels guilty for it, admonishes herself that she is beginning to sound just like Mary, and then feels guilty for _that_. "Gloria is a very great help at the hospital," she says to Branson. "Really, she's there as often as I am, and the children love her. But she is _not_ an early riser." She cocks an eyebrow. "Nine o'clock, Gloria. And wear something _practical_. It'll be a long morning on our feet."

"Well, you know me, so you know I won't make any promises." She gives a cheeky grin to her side-partner. "If I'm to be fashionably late I may as well look fashionable while doing it."

"But I don't think practical has to mean ugly," he replies. "Or unfashionable," he adds, with a nod towards Sybil, gussied up in a wide brimmed hat and a pair of sturdy walking shoes. "Wouldn't you say so, Lady Sybil?"

 _Please don't make fun of me._ Sybil stops up her throat, swallows before saying, "Are you asking me if I think my outfit is ugly?" with an upturned nose. She receives a budding satisfaction in his creeping smile, and his mouth opens to say more. But he is balked by an outburst from Gloria:

"Of course it's not!" She bats at his arm. "Sybil always dresses rather well – she's _very_ modern."

She raises a shoulder. "I try."

"And you succeed," Christopher says with a warm smile.

" _Mostly_." Gloria points a finger across. "But you still won't wear lipstick!"

Sybil laughs. "There are some trends that aren't meant to be followed." She appeases Gloria's blooming pout with a raised hand. "At least by me."

"Well, I don't see the harm in it." She leans into Branson, plumping her lips. "Tell me, Mr. Branson, what do you think of my shade? – and be honest!"

Once upon a time he had confessed to Sybil that he did not like makeup. Now it's, "I think it suits you," and a smile.

The conversations retreat as Christopher reclaims her attention and Gloria laughs again near Branson's ear. Young and silly – but she blows away dullness in the car with that winsome laugh, whitewashes the dark paneling with her vibrancy. And had she ever been such a bright young thing? Sybil wonders to herself, looking on with envy.

* * *

The train takes another hour to reach Tonbridge. Christopher's chauffeur stands waiting for them at the station, and it jars Branson to think that this is the first time he will be driven about by an actual, liveried chauffeur – a testament, perhaps, to how far he has come, though underwritten with the acute depressor that as a chauffeur he had seen her every day, and as _Tom Branson, Reporter_ , he sees her never.

The four of them clamor into the plush seats, Sybil and Christopher beside each other once again, as if conjoined, and from there drive east into the countryside, half an hour until they pull into Camsbury's park gates, and after the butler allows them entrance through the fortress of a door, Christopher points up to the ferocious chandelier which dwarfs the rest of the foyer.

" _That_ was installed in the 16th century."

"Impressive," Branson replies. His first thought is that there's no good reason it hasn't been torn down by the 20th, save for those antiquated allegiances to tradition. But the remainder of his strictures go unsung, evaporating in a flash of cotton twill against his hand – Sybil brushing too closely beside him, intent on reaching a blown glass vase displayed on a console on the far wall.

"White roses!" She twists her head over her shoulder to smile at Christopher, then leans forward into them. "Were these just cut today?"

Christopher saunters over to her, his hands laced behind his back. "I telephoned the request in this morning. I remembered how much you liked them and hoped it would make for a nice welcome."

"They're lovely. Thank you." She leans down to smell them again. "And so thoughtful," she murmurs into the petals.

He does not think his memory has slipped so much to disremember that afternoon she had told him she disliked the austerity of arrangements, that she would vastly prefer a simple potted daisy. But he can't be certain, not after all this time, and not with Gloria whispering in his ear: "Oh, just look at them! Isn't it marvelous?"

The housekeeper descends in a flurry of petticoated skirt. She gives a mighty greeting to her intermittent master, then recites for everyone's benefit the day's arrangements. They have a full itinerary awaiting them, the first order of business a tour of the home, followed by a cold lunch.

"This is, after all, a work trip," Christopher tells the rest with a nod towards Branson.

"I don't know about all of _you_ ," Gloria says, "but I am _not_ here for work."

"Then what are you here for?" Sybil asks. Branson watches her keenly. He thinks it might be a jab. He tries not to think it is a jab for his sake, though he will not deny the spreading warmth in his heart at the unthought conjecture.

But Sybil deflates his rising hopes with a smile, and Gloria's ensuing mirthful laughter snuffs it out altogether. "The company, silly!" Gloris cries, and then the ladies link arms, moving off together.

Christopher and he walk side by side down the corridors, peeking their heads inside pre-selected rooms, inspecting the prize antiques, hard backed and knobby chairs from the time of the Conqueror, faded Elizabethan tapestries. "These days the house is rarely lived in." Christopher says this as if it were a tragedy. "With father and me living almost exclusively in London, I sometimes fear we neglect our duty here."

Dutiful is not a word Branson would ever use in conjunction with the inanimate. People and lives, blood and tears, these are what incur his sense of duty. Yet the sentiment does not go unappreciated: "But you manage to keep it up," he replies. They are in the gallery, heads tilted upwards to behold the Lord Sheffields of yore.

"I do what I can from a distance. But the house and grounds are primarily maintained by my steward, and there can never be a proper substitute for the oversight of an owner."

They eventually come underneath a portrait in full-length. "My grandfather," Christopher says, pointing to the balding, pompous looking gentleman, a typical subject for the pasquinades published in Branson's paper. But whatever their look, they must have done something right, Branson concedes. The place still stands erect through the vertigoes of its life, all four hundred years of them, within the last ten outfitted with all the modern accouterments: gas powered stoves, central air, en suite bathrooms in the family wing.

Christopher explains all of the upgrades with enthusiasm, but though contemporary in amenities the decor is still very much Victorian, that apprehension of too much lace and ceremony.

"I'll admit it needs a woman's touch," he has the gall to say in one outdated parlor. Branson notices Sybil's back straighten in her refractory way, anticipates the fiery reproach.

"It's rather ghastly, I won't deny it," she says, Gloria at her elbow and whispering too loudly:

"It needs all the help it can get. And never too soon to be getting ideas!" which elicits from Sybil an unfathomable smile.

Afterwards they sup on lounge chairs in an airy drawing room facing west made picturesque by the wall of large, rectangular windows. When the meal concludes they spend a moment to digest and dawdle. He smokes a cigarette while reclining in his chair, aware of Sybil fondling the collection of frames sitting on the sofa table as Christopher introduces her to the faces.

Gloria reappears suddenly. He had not noticed she was missing.

"Gloria?" Christopher's frame pops up from where it was stooping. "What have you got there?"

"Now, don't be cross, but I've been snooping." She walks to the corner of the room while presenting a thin, unmarked disc. "I'd no idea you actually owned records, Christopher. This silly thing is always sitting here empty, doing nothing but collecting dust." She blows on the spotless gramophone for good effect before lodging in the record and lowering the needle. The music scratches to a start, low, muted brass swelling to diapason as Gloria's eyes round with joy and surprise. "Paul Whiteman! I never would have thought if of you, Christopher!"

He chuckles. "And what have you thought of me?"

"Oh, something stuffy and old. Vivaldi. Mozart." She laughs as if she had made a great joke. "I had the most horrid music instructor – he said I was a lost cause and then quit without notice. Mama believed him and so never hired another." She begins moving towards Branson, swaying on the balls of her feet – "Do you know the words?" – lightly singing when the melody repeats:

 _Awake or sleeping_  
My heart's in your keeping  
And calling to you soft and low

He shakes his head. "I've never heard this song." He has heard this song a hundred times, a favorite in every pub. And he wonders when the lies learned to slip so easily, when he had stopped saying what he means.

Christopher resumes his conversation with Sybil. They speak low and intimately, as if unmindful of those who watch them.

 _My wonderful one_  
How my arms ache to hold, dear  
To cuddle and fold you to me

Gloria's voice is passable and not unpleasant, but she hovers too close. _A dime a dozen_ had been Branson's preeminent thought, and then he had chastised himself for being unfair, as she had been wont to do in the past, determining to make the effort for her sake, which he feels he may have outperformed – not that it matters when she has eyes for only one.

Gloria tugs on his arm. Her exuberance is trying. "Come, Mr. Branson! Won't you dance with me?"

He does not submit to budge and lets his arm slip through her grasp, shaking his head again. "I don't dance." That one is true, and a small part of him hopes he is proving to be a disappointment, his perfunctory rejections, the way he is looking past her to where Christopher has once again spoken to Sybil in a way that earns her smile, pulling her away towards the northern door. And she led along willingly, with compliancy and a timid blush. And what has become of the rebellious youngest daughter, the nightingale that could not be caged? Who is this smiling, proper creature? This _Lady_?

"Don't be silly. _Everyone_ dances!"

He won't dawdle on the condemning probability that he was the hand that clipped her wings, simply takes a drag, one deep with resignation as he lets them go, lets them disappear together, her laughter echoing from somewhere beyond the door, and Gloria humming through the words she can't remember as she finishes the final verse:

 _There's none like you, I adore you_  
My life I'll live for you,  
Oh, my wonderful, wonderful one

* * *

The sun is at its peak by the time they drive out to tour a few of the more successful farms. Christopher excitedly points out machinery and throws out bewildering jargon with gusto, and afterwards they stroll along the outer perimeter of the park to inspect the newly refurbished cottages. From their vantage point they can view the fullness of Camsbury, all of its lush nine thousand acres, more sprawling than Downton and a touch less imposing. Instead of sharp spires which puncture the sky and are prone to make one prepare for battle, the high rooftops slope downward in creation of an inviting aspect.

Sybil breathes in the clear sky and wide open spaces that can make one believe anything is possible if you simply run fast enough. She used to feel this way back at Downton, back before the war, when the isolation felt as a kind of freedom, a facade of privacy where nothing could be seen and therefore nothing judged.

Now everything feels judged, the men lagging behind and privy to any word or deed, each of her faculties alive to the eyes at her back, of Branson walking with his notebook out as Christopher talks him through the history of the lands and title, which she strains to hear over Gloria's prattle.

"The Barony was bestowed by Edward the fourth, to the first Baron Sheffield."

"Bravery in the war of Roses?"

"Close." She wonders if that is amusement she hears in Christopher's voice. "Exemplary service by way of tax collection."

"You're right. It is close. If they can't kill you with the sword then they'll do it with parchment."

She bites her lip with a smile. She does not need to wonder over what she hears in Branson's voice. Years ago she was fluent in all the intonations heard within, and like muscle memory, the longer she is in his presence, flexing her ears to the graceful patterns in his speech, the more she becomes attuned to every nuance, the more it begins to feel like 1919 – and had their minds ever once existed in such harmonious accord? It seems impossible to think so now, even more impossible to think that anything might remain of their former perfect pitch.

But she's learned to be wary of impossibilities. She's not here for a resurrection, she's here for facts, to observe, to determine – to find _closure_ – and through it to decide her future _._ A private word may be just the final nail she needs to bury the past, and her chance, or perhaps mischance, arrives with the photographer Branson had hired from Tonbridge, a large camera case in one hand and a tripod balancing on the shoulder opposite.

He obliges Gloria the group photo she begs him for, then teaches everyone the importance of perspective and lighting, trooping them out to a sloping ledge over which he positions Christopher, the backdrop of the house set to good advantage to his back, the slanting sun in his face. The remaining trio watch from a distance, and after a few minutes Gloria loudly announces that she won't tolerate being excluded from the excitement of a _real live photo-shoot_ , and willingly embraces the pinnacle of the day's heat, high-stepping over the grass as she clutches down on her white cloche hat.

And so three becomes two, and they are left to themselves, yards enough away to hear only the occasional burst of high laughter drifting from Gloria, conspicuous under their copse of trees that provide shade from the sweltering sun.

For a long while they do nothing but stand and watch. Movement seems hazardous, to say nothing of words, the space and silence between them fraught, and not only for the occasional backwards looks and glances, the waves as those of small children beckoning an audience. Custom dictates he speak first, and she grows more anxious with every silent second, and when she worries that the lack of their interaction has reached such a length so as to be construed as noteworthy, he finally speaks.

"So your Foundling Hospital?"

She looks up to him with a jolt, uttering the first thing that tackles her brain. "It's not _mine_."

He seems pleased with her response, at least he smiles when he says, "To hear Christopher talk, it is."

"He's been known to exaggerate." She looks into the ground, resisting the urge to bite her lip. Then she lifts her head back up with a decisive snap. "Well, what about it?"

He shrugs. "What do you do there? And when do you do it? Why is it so special to you?"

"You really are a reporter now, aren't you?" She gives in to the urge and nips a small part of her lower lip, aware of his keen eyes assessing her. "All right. I spend most of my free time volunteering there – about every morning on the weekdays, sometimes the weekends as well. I help with administration, mostly, but I do hands on work with the children as often as I can. I'm not on the board – not yet –"

"Planning the invasion already? You always were ambitious."

"Now _you're_ exaggerating."

They are silent for awhile. Then: "And what do you think about this move to the country?"

"I'm not sure there's anything to think about it." He's never been inscrutable, or subtle, and she casts his smirking face a knowing look. "Not everything has to be an argument, you know."

"I'm not trying to make it an argument. I just want to know where you got the notion to move this century old London establishment out into the wild, saving them from the evils of the city, and all of that."

"I don't know about evils..." She narrows her eyes, mulling over her reply. "But the country is far safer than London. And cheaper." She shrugs. "Those are simple facts."

"Safety is a good consideration. But there are others."

"Such as...?"

"Experience. Knowledge. Culture. Those are the things any person needs for a fulfilling life."

"But we're not speaking of _persons_ , in a general sense, we're talking about children, who have already suffered enough for one lifetime. They'll have the rest of their lives for your so-called experience, so why not let them have a time of rest and security before they're thrust out into the world?" She takes a few breaths to calm herself, beat back the throbbing blood. She has not gotten so worked up in years. Then with a collected voice: "It's been a well considered move to provide the children with a better quality of life, and I'm not sure why you're so cynical about it all."

"I'm not." He shifts his weight to the other foot, leaning in. "Look, take them out of the city and you take them away from connections they may need for the future, unless one sleepy village can find jobs for them all." And for a moment she can glimpse that same old earnestness that used to set her on fire, before the spark in his eyes submerges again under the jaded veneer. "That's a simple fact," he says with almost a snap.

A swift half turn and she's facing out towards the photo session, mouth pinched, ending their conversation, for despite all of _what_ _once was_ which hums about him, she's beginning to truly see and hear the discord of what is new and different, the eagerness turned to bitterness, the ideals over ripened, rotted to cynicism.

And though her mind bends towards the thought she won't let herself dwell on how large a part she played in effecting those changes, persuading herself of his contentment with life – after all:

"I've read some of your work, you know."

His eyes looked stunned, whether for what she said or that she is still talking to him at all, she can't say, the rest of his face passive. "Have you?"

"Yes." She looks down at her hands, tapping her fingertips together. "Some of it's very good."

He laughs. "And the rest of it?"

One thing which she will never tell him: the rest of it is very, very good. "You've done very well for yourself."

He shrugs. "I've done all right."

Silence invades as the photo session seems wrap up, and she decides it's high time for some kind of ending.

"When are you leaving?" she asks.

"I was supposed go Monday but there's been a change of plans. Sunday morning is likely." The traveling sun has beaten a path to the pair, and he holds his hand over his forehead in a makeshift brim. "They'll be sure to get a lot of good pictures, with Camsbury in the background, sparkling like that."

"Well, it's a lovely day for it. And it's a lovely house."

"So you like it, then?"

"Camsbury?" He nods. "It's a bit more modernized than Downton, but not as impressive. But then these houses are mostly all the same."

"But do you _like_ it?"

She hesitates long enough to give the impression of consideration. "There's no reason for me not to. And Christopher was very good to invite me." Her eyes narrow. "Why? Do you not like it?"

He smiles. "I hate it."

"That doesn't surprise me. But as a guest of Christopher I find it rather unkind to speak so ill of his home."

"Well I'm not a very kind person. Not like you." He points his chin out. "Or him." He pats at his breast pocket, then reaches inside. Two minutes later he is smoking, another three before he asks, "So do you like it?"

She digs her toe into the ground, as if stamping out something small and unpleasant.

"I'm not sure what you want me to say, exactly."

"It's just a question. Yes or no will do."

A shell begins hardening in her throat, filling with resentment or fear, the obsession that lies in between. "And why have you a right to know, to even ask?" She swallows down hard, stares at him with dry, pained eyes. "You're being awfully pushy, considering."

"I'm sorry." He looks genuinely repentant, arms and hands open to her. "I don't want to make you cross. I only –"

"Only what?"

"I just want to know how you're getting on." And then he looks at her, that longing, broken-eyed look, the look flush with indwelling devotion, and it flashes again, that bit of something, that brief flicker of overwhelming regret – that something she saw at the gala when they had first spoken. And then just like at the gala:

"So there you see it, Camsbury in all its glory!" Christopher's near voice comes upon them loudly, rapidly, sending the last of her emotions scattering. "Tell me: How does it compare to Downton?"

"It's smaller," Branson blurts out. Sybil freezes and stares, as if he has just shattered a wall of glass. "Sorry! Of course he was asking you," he says with a nod towards Sybil, and then with a wave of his hand he seems to have dismissed himself, striding longer and faster till he has left them far behind without a caring or backwards glance.

"It's not _very_ much smaller," Sybil says. Her heart pains with every beat, stomach twisted. "But Downton is rather large, even for its kind." The rote words tumble out easily, yet infinitely more difficult is the task of watching him walk farther and farther ahead, at last coming to stop where Gloria stands heckling the photographer, and who quickly latches on to him.

Christopher inhales a deep breath. "I shall never tire of air in Kent. I presume you must have similar feelings towards Yorkshire. How do you take to country life?"

"I know it. I'm comfortable with it. But I haven't lived in Yorkshire for so long." Not since Branson had lived there, with a girl who used to be her, a girl he once knew but can no longer recognize.

Christopher charges into detail after detail about the further changes he wishes to enact, the life he wishes to make here for himself, etc. She bobs her head with every word, smiling all the way through, for she has perfected the look, after many years of practice, her smile growing more brittle year by year as the plaster hardens.

And yonder all she can see is Branson laughing with Gloria, laughing with ease as one with a guiltless conscious, as if they hadn't just stood trial together. She wonders how it is possible, for guilt has become such a mainstay in her existence, one emotion among many that have tightly wound themselves into the knotted clump that is her feelings. And no matter how often or hard or meticulously she picks and pulls, seven years and counting, the threads have yet to untangle.

She decides it's time to stop being gentle. If she's to clear a path for the rest of her life she'll need to do it not with prodding but with explosives.

"Christopher?"

His stream of chatter dams to a halt. "Yes?"

"Only I was thinking... would you like to take tea with us tomorrow?"

He looks surprised. "At Grantham Place?

"Where else?"

Now he looks pleasantly surprised. "And Lady Mary won't mind?"

"I'm free to invite whoever I like. And I'd like to invite you." She gives him a shy smile. "She wants to meet you, actually."

"So my reputation precedes me?"

"In some circles, it might. At Grantham Place it certainly does."

"Well." He smiles like a cat that's got the cream, clasping his hands behind his back. She's made her catch, and it will be up to her not to throw the fish back. "Then I hope I won't prove a disappointment."

And she hopes that she won't either.

* * *

After three knocks with no response, Mary opens the door.

"Sybil? Are you awake?"

"Yes." She is at the vanity, facing the mirror, hands set into her lap.

Mary eases down onto the bed and begins inspecting the end of her braid. "So. How was it?"

"A day in the country. What's there to tell?"

"Were you able to find what you were looking for?"

"Closure, you mean? Yes. I think I have."

"And?"

"And...he's going to leave on Sunday. And I won't ever see him again."

Mary's teeth begin to flash, the satisfied "good" nearly pushed through them; but then Sybil turns away from the mirror and meets her gaze, on her face not the solace of peace but the weariness of surrender.

Something small and painful stirs within Mary. It's not the broad strokes of agony she had felt during the war, and she realizes that six years of undisturbed happiness with Matthew has made her complacent, dulled her intuition to the turmoil in others. And with the help of a measured pause, her sharp mind slices to the core, revealing that her stirrings are not ones of guilt – never guilt – but empathy, her new sonar for an age when she no longer has the advantage of homology

She walks over and kneels beside Sybil's chair, looking up into her face. "And is that what you want?"

"It's what's going to happen." It's been years since Mary has heard her voice so true, or so lifeless. "We're different people now, Mary. He's moved on. And I..."

"And you?"

"And I'm happy for him."

She withdraws to think for a moment, then looks intently into her sister. "And what of Christopher?"

"Christopher?" Sybil turns back towards the mirror, speaking as though to convince the image of herself. "Tomorrow Christopher is coming to tea."

* * *


End file.
